


In Apple Blossom Time

by DarthNickels



Series: The Trees Sweetly Blooming [3]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Closeted Character, Developing Relationship, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Bigotry, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 39,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthNickels/pseuds/DarthNickels
Summary: April  1917: Against his better judgement, Thomas falls in love
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Edward Courtenay
Series: The Trees Sweetly Blooming [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581772
Comments: 30
Kudos: 128





	1. Downton Cottage Hospital

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to Wassail, Wassail, but could be read in any particular order. If you are familiar with other works in the series, be advised that this one is darker and graphically expands on the events of 2x02 and other subjects as specified in the tags. Viewer Discretion Is Advised.

Today was his first shipment of wounded men, and Thomas was nearly pulling his hair out.

Downton Cottage Hospital was plunged into chaos, pandemonium everywhere he looked. His first day back on the job, and it was a cock-up for the history books. Thomas barked orders, re-routed stretchers, dragged beds back and forth—his hand was aching, and he was in a foul mood.

“Let me just adjust those, sir, so you’ll be comfortable—” he was saying, in his most pleasant and absolutely false upstairs voice. He happened to look up and saw one of the nurses trying to help an orderly transfer a patient to the bed—and making a fucking pig’s ear of it.

“Nurse, if you jostle that man, I will have you sacked,” he snapped. But he could see why she was struggling—the man was delirious, thrashing, and they could barely keep hold of him. His face was swathed in bandages, leaving only his nose and mouth, open, gasping like a fish—

“Steady—steady—” the orderly was saying, but the man cried out—in pain or terror, or perhaps both.

Thomas had to do everything himself. He left Captain Harwood to his own devices, and went to put out the fire over there.

“It’s all right, sir,” he said, pitching his voice above the din of the ward. “You’re at a hospital now, it’s all downhill from here—”

“He can’t hear you,” Nurse Sullivan said, flustered. “They say he took a turn on the train—it’s all infected under there, he won’t make it…”

“_You’re_ not the one who decides that,” Thomas snapped. The man cried out, muttering incoherently—what skin Thomas could see was flushed. He managed to grab a flailing wrist, and he felt the heat beneath the man’s skin, the fever burning him inside out—

_That’s the fire keeping him alive_, he thought. But he didn’t have time for fancy. He put two fingers on the man’s wrist and fumbled for a watch with his gloved hand, hoping to get a pulse—

The man squirmed, and Thomas nearly lost hold of him—his twisted his arm, and now their positions were reversed, the man clutching his wrist, squeezing it so tight Thomas was distantly afraid he might actually do him harm—

There was fire in the grip, life pulsing in it—

“Easy there—” Thomas paused, glancing at the tag “—Lieutenant Courtenay. We’ll get you settled and comfortable, just you wait.” Thomas glanced at Sullivan.

“He’s got some fight left,” he said, confidently. “Don’t count him out just yet. You leave him to me, I’ll see him through. Go on, then, there’s still at least two more waiting—”

The Lieutenant had yet to release his hand.

* * *

Lieutenant Courtenay was more lucid the next day, but not by much. Thomas happened to be passing by his bed in time to see him mumbling and thrashing.

“Easy, sir,” he said, in the soothing voice he’d perfected over years of helping men struggle for life. “It’s alright now.”

“It’s dark,” the lieutenant moaned. “Why’s it so dark?”

Poor bastard. He wasn’t in any state to hear why. “It’s night, sir. You’ve got to rest.”

“No—I have to—we have orders—”

“It was only a dream,” Thomas lied. “You’re on leave, remember? We’re miles from the front. Go back to sleep.”

“A dream,” the lieutenant repeated. “A dream…” he stilled, his words dissolving into meaningless fragments.

Thomas waited until his breathing was slow and steady before moving on.

* * *

Two days later, Lieutenant Courtenay’s fever finally broke. Thomas began his shift at the crack of dawn, only to find the man clawing at his bandages.

“Sir! Leave that, please!” Thomas barked. Courtenay flinched at his voice, and turned his head towards the sound.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Where am I?”

Thomas sighed. He would have preferred to not go through this first thing in the morning. But, he reminded himself, he was the luckiest man standing on that floor. He was lucky he _could_ stand.

He could manage a pleasant disposition.

“Corporal Thomas Barrow, RAMC,” he said. “You’re in hospital back at home. Well, in Yorkshire, at least.”

“Yorkshire?” Lieutenant Courtenay shook his head. “How did I get here? Why have you got me blindfolded?”

Thomas set his tray down. He wouldn’t make his rounds on time today. “You’ve been wounded,” he said, trying not to sound as though he had this conversation every other day. “Those are bandages. It’s very important that you don’t attempt to remove the dressing.”

“Wounded? But the attack hasn’t even begun—” Lieutenant Courtenay stopped short.

“Do you remember what happened?” Thomas probed, gently.

“I was gassed,” Courtenay said, blankly. “I remember—the shell, the gas, and I couldn’t get away—couldn’t get my mask.” and then, in a very small voice: “oh my God. Oh—oh God, oh God no, not _this_—”

Thomas hesitated, but reached out to place a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. Lieutenant Courtenay flinched away from the touch.

“You need to rest, sir,” he said, gently. “I’ve got some medicine here—”

“What’s happened to me?!” Lieutenant Courtenay cried. Thomas has thought, after his first few months, that he sooner or later he would toughen up— that there would come a time when he was just as jaded of the fear and pain in the men’s voices as he was of anyone else’s troubles.

He had been wrong.

“It’s just like you said, sir,” he reminded him, patiently. “You were gassed. Only time will tell—”

“Tell what!” Courtenay was in near-hysterics. “Tell _what_—?”

Some of the other men were starting to wake, grumbling and fussing at the early hour. “Please, sir,” Thomas said, “You’ve been very ill, and you must save your strength—”

“Corporal?” Thomas turned—that was newly-minted Nurse Crawley. “I—I can take these around, if you’re busy.”

He shouldn’t let her. She had her own duties, and he couldn’t be caught shirking. But there was a stain on Courtenay’s bandage, seeping through the cotton—blood, pus—

Tears—

“Thank you, Nurse,” he said, wearily. “I’d be obliged.”

* * *

Nurse Crawley was out for the evening, taking dinner up at the Abbey. Thomas found he didn’t envy her, even if he smirked at her grumbles.

He’d been skeptical, when he heard one of the Crawley girls wanted to sign up for the VAD—but Lady Sybil was decent enough. She was somehow both the most sensible of the sisters and yet the one most prone to flights of fancy. It was a dizzying combination, and she could go from practical young woman to giggling romantic in the span of a single conversation.

But she was a hard worker, as much as it shocked Thomas to learn. She had a stomach stronger than some of the recruits he’d started with, unflinching in the face of filth and agony. It was a resolve matched by empathy and gentle manners that made her the pride of Downton Cottage Hospital—at least, as far as the patients were concerned. They cheered right up when their pretty little nurse was making the rounds.

Well, all but one.

Lieutenant Courtenay was morose, his mouth turned downwards in a miserable expression. He hadn’t said a word since this morning, despite Thomas’ cheerful introductions to life at the hospital. He hadn’t even said anything as Thomas carefully undressed him, sponging off the sweat and grime from his days lying in the grips of fever. He had been stoic, even helpless and naked, refusing to surrender the last of his dignity. Now he sat in his crisp blue-and-white pajamas, hands folded on his lap, the picture of quiet misery.

Thomas should have been angry at Nurse Crawley for skiving off and leaving him with a double shift—any of the other nurses would have gotten a proper dressing-down for even considering it. But he worried about the Lieutenant. The fire with which he’d gripped Thomas’ hand seemed to have gone out of him, leaving him empty. Hollow.

Thomas wanted to keep a closer eye on him.

“Corporal?” the man asked, suddenly. “Corporal, are you there?”

“I am, sir,” Thomas came to his bedside. “Can I get you anything?”

Courtenay worried the edge of his bedspread between his fingers. “Have you any news?” he asked. “From the front?”

Thomas hesitated. “Only as much as anyone gets. We’ll know when they’re sending us more men, but that’s about it.”

“Could you—” Courtenay stopped short. He swallowed, trying to compose himself: “It’s only that—I should like to hear word of my platoon. I won’t be—_leading them_—” his voice broke, and Thomas pretended his didn’t notice, for the sake of the man’s dignity.

He took a long, steadying breath.

“I won’t be leading them anymore,” Courtenay continued, once he’d collected himself. “But things were rather chaotic, in the charge. I should like to know if we took casualties.” He paused: “other than the obvious, of course.”

Thomas couldn’t suppress a snort. A joke this early was a good sign, indeed. “It’s good of you to think of them, sir,” he said, and found that he meant it.

“It’s my job to think of them,” Courtenay said, matter-of-factly, but his face fell. “It _was_ my job. They’ll have me drummed out soon enough.”

“You don’t know that. It’s too early to say,” Thomas offered, automatically, but he knew it was a lie.

Courtenay knew it too: “It’d be a queer sort of army with you in charge,” he said, crossly, and rolled over. “Thank you, Corporal. That will be all.”

Thomas left him to his thoughts.

* * *

“And how is our newest arrival?” Clarkson was asking him. “Lieutenant Courtenay?”

Thomas shifted. “The fever’s broken. He’s recovering strength. We’re keeping a careful eye on the blisters, but they seem to be receding…” he hesitated, and finished: “I expect he’ll make a full recovery.”

Clarkson glanced up, skeptically: “Not a _full_ recovery, Corporal. You know better.”

“Sir, there are cases—”

“The damage is too extensive. His eyesight won’t come back,” Clarkson said, severely. “Don’t give him hope when there is none. He won’t thank you for it.”

Thomas thought of the Lieutenant, silent and pale, curled up in his bed and refusing his dinner. “I’m concerned about his—morale. He’s taking it very hard, sir.”

“Of course he is,” Clarkson said, his voice softening. “But I’m afraid he’s not the only man facing this particular tragedy. You must guide him to the other side.”

“Yes sir.”

“I mean it. If you get his hopes up and they’re dashed, it’ll be like a second wound. He won’t thank you for it.”

“Yes sir.”

“Alright, Corporal, if there’s nothing else to report, you better get back the ward.”

Later, Thomas brought Lieutenant Courtenay a plate from the mess, and wouldn’t leave him alone until he’d taken a single, reluctant bite.

* * *

Thomas had been certain Lieutenant Courtenay was sleeping—he and Nurse Crawley were standing beside an empty bed, gossiping about one of the newer nurses.

“She acts like a martyr,” Thomas groused. “With those big dumb cow eyes, always mooing about something or another—it is the _Voluntary_ Aid Detachment. If she thinks she’s too good for it, she should—”

“She’s only religious,” Nurse Crawley said, shaking out the new linens. “It’s her calling, to help the sick and so on. She hates the suffering of God’s children.”

“What about _my_ suffering when I have to listen to her go on and on?”

“She’ll ask for a transfer if you keep being so nasty; you’d be in trouble then—and it would serve you right!” 

“There’s a thought. Maybe they’ll ship her off to the Holy Land. She’d do well at the desert front,” Thomas sneered, “but the way she stands there and chews her cud, they’d lose track of her with all the other camels.”

“I say,” Thomas nearly jumped out of his skin when Lieutenant Courtenay cut in. “What a beastly thing to say about Nurse Greeley.”

“I’m sorry sir. I thought you were sleeping—”

“Please, sir, don’t listen to Corporal Barrow—he likes a little joke, even if they’re all terribly unfunny.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t funny,” Courtenay said, crossly. “Only that it was unkind.” He folded his arms over his chest and looked away.

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“You hear that? He thinks I’m funny,” he said, gloating.

* * *

“Please, Corporal,” that was Lieutenant Courtenay calling for him. Thomas paused, shifting an armful of blankets.

“Sir?”

“My men,” Courtenay reminded him, pointedly. “Is there any news at all?”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas replied, biting back on his annoyance. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

“See that you do,” Courtenay laid back against his pillows.

It would be easy to resent him, write him off as an arrogant prick like so many others that came in to the officer’s hospital. But the one comfort the men had, in the face of a bleak prognosis, was an unshakable, unmovable, nearly bullet-proof stiff upper lip. It was easy to mistake it for cocky swagger—it was a face for the daytime.

The silence of the night shift was punctured by the sound of muffled crying.

* * *

Nurse Crawley was changing the lieutenant’s dressings.

She unwound the long strips of cotton, each layer becoming more discolored and soiled as they grew closer to the skin. She pulled the last layer off, gently—as gently as she could—but Courtenay still winced with pain.

“I’m so sorry, Lieutenant. Does it hurt terribly?”

“Not at all,” he lied, through gritted teeth. The redness and swelling had faded with the infection, but there were a few remaining blisters filled with puss marring his skin. His eyelids were nearly swollen shut, and his eyes were bloodshot and crusted with filth.

Thomas found he couldn’t look away.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Nurse Crawley said, with a cheer he was certain she didn’t feel. “Then you can get dressed and join the others. They’ve got a whole new set of records, they can play any kind of music you like—”

“Corporal?” Thomas nearly jumped out of his skin. Clarkson was glaring at him, clipboard in hand. “Not daydreaming, I hope?”

“No sir! Sorry sir!” Thomas snapped the attention, throwing up a salute.

“Well then. You have your duties. I suggest you hop to it.”

* * *

“Hullo, Lieutenant,” Thomas greeted. “Mind if a pull up a chair?”

Courtenay rolled his head in the direction of Thomas’ voice. “Can’t stop you,” he said, wearily. “But I’m poor company.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Thomas rifled through his bag. “I saw you weren’t with the others, and I thought you might like to spend the evening doing something else.

“Like what? Go dancing?” The lieutenant asked, darkly. Thomas continued, undeterred:

“Well, you’re almost cleared for visitors. I thought you might like to write a letter home, let them know how you’re doing.”

“Dictate a letter, you mean,” Courtenay looked sour at the prospect.

“Yes sir. Tell me exactly what you’d like it to say, and it’ll be in the post tonight.”

“I’ve got nothing to say.”

“You’d like a visitor,” Thomas said, matter-of-factly. He had no family who wanted to see him, hardly any friends who weren’t dead or about to be dead, but even in a haze of morphine he’d asked for a paper and pen so O’Brien would know he hadn’t snuffed it. “It’d do you a world of good.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” Courtenay asked, snidely.

“’Tis,” Thomas replied, relentlessly pleasant.

Courtenay huffed, and for a moment Thomas thought he would call him up for his impertinence. Instead, he sighed.

“No thank you,” he said, finally. “Mother will have had a telegram.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but a telegram isn’t the equal of a letter.”

Courtenay considered this. “Tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll—I’ll write her tomorrow. Or you will, at any rate. There’s no rush, if I’m not cleared yet. I’m just—tired.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Thomas agreed. He remembered spending long hours in the dining room, silently practicing his bland and agreeable answers for when he was valet to His Lordship the Earl. He could never have imagined how much use they would get—and in what strange circumstances.

“If you’re tired, perhaps you’d like me to read the paper?” Thomas offered.

Courtenay shook his head.

“Sir, I don’t mean to be impertinent,” Thomas said, firmly, “but isolation is not conductive to your recovery.” Courtenay didn’t respond. He went on: “And, if I may be a _bit_ impertinent, sulking won’t do you any good.”

“So you’ll browbeat me until I participate?”

“I’ve got the heaviest hand, sir,” Thomas assured him, “it’s why I was promoted.”

Courtenay snorted. “Very well.” He propped his head against his arm, lazy, languid, and Thomas tried not to admire the long line of his body— arm to chest to torso to hip…

“Tell me about this place,” Courtenay said.

“This place? This hospital?” Thomas asked. “There’s not much to say. Cottage hospital in a tiny village.”

“In Yorkshire.”

“Indeed it is, sir.”

“Well,” Courtenay pursed his lips. “Then tell me about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“There’s not much to say. Thomas Barrow, RAMC—”

“I know that,” Courtenay said, impatiently. “What do you look like?”

Thomas was caught off guard. “I’m tall,” he offered, lamely. “Taller than some, at least. Black hair, blue eyes.”

“Anything interesting?” he pressed. “Harelip? Warts?”

“No such luck, sir.”

Courtenay smiled at that—the first Thomas had seen from him. Something stirred.

“What about that nurse—Crawford?”

“Nurse Crawley, sir.”

“Well? What does she look like?”

The stirring stopped abruptly. “She’s very pretty,” Thomas answered, bitterly.

“Good for her. That tells me very little.”

“She’s also got black hair and blue eyes,” he added, fighting to regain his good humor.

“Is she tall as well?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Are you two related?”

Thomas barked with laughter, sharp enough that it started Courtenay.

“I say, I don’t know what’s so funny,” he said, defensively.

“I suppose it is, sir— it’s just—” Thomas struggled to control himself. “You must think very highly of me, to think I’m related to the likes of _Lady_ Sybil Crawley.”

“Ah,” Courtenay seemed to understand. “_Lady_ Sybil. I see. Well, maybe I just think poorly of her.”

“You don’t. No one does.”

“Of course you’re right. I don’t know why I said that. She’s an angel. How did she end up in such a dreary place?”

“She’s the daughter of the Earl of Grantham. Her father owns this place—the hospital, the village, nearly all the land. Lives at Downton Abbey, the big house up the road. I used—I used to work up there, before the war.” Thomas hesitated, but there was no point in putting on airs: “In her father’s household.”

“So you knew each other before? Extraordinary. What did you do, up there in her father’s household?”

“I was in service,” Thomas said, shortly. “A footman. First footman, in fact.”

It wouldn’t matter to him—servants were all the same to the likes them. But, for whatever perverse reason, the distinction still meant something to Thomas.

“A footman?” Courtenay’s interest was piqued. “Really!”

“No, I’m really the son of the earl,” Thomas rolled his eyes. “Yes, obviously—why would I make it up?”

“You just don’t seem the type.”

“What type is that?” Thomas asked, not bothering to mask his irritation.

“Well, you’re awfully mouthy, for one thing.”

“Not a servant anymore, am I?” Thomas’ good feelings had cooled significantly.

“No, but you are only a corporal, and they really shouldn’t be prone to backchat either.”

Thomas sat back in his chair, deeply unamused. There was a long moment of silence between them.

“I’ve offended you,” Courtenay said. “I’m sorry.”

Thomas still didn’t reply.

“Are you—still there?” Courtenay asked, his voice sounded very small.

“I am, sir.”

“Would you tell me about it? About your life before the war?” he asked, meekly.

“Mostly I just got insulted by people who thought they were better than me,” Thomas replied, curtly.

Courtenay rounded on him, like he was going to really lay into him, but stopped. He let out a frustrated sigh. “I deserved that. Alright, Corporal, you’ve put me in my place. You have my most humble apologies.”

“Yeah, well. You took it better than any of the others,” Thomas said, mollified. “I suppose its indecent of me to pretend I don’t have a smart mouth.”

“No one would believe it,” Courtenay muttered.

“Dunno what to tell you about service,” Thomas admitted. “It’s boring.”

“I suppose it must be,” Courtenay seemed genuinely thoughtful.

“I’m not much one for bowing and scraping.”

“No, you’re certainly not. Is that why you ran away to the army?”

“No,” Thomas answered truthfully: “I was about to be sacked.”

Courtenay’s mouth opened, like he wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not. Then, he burst out in a fit of intermittent, hoarse laughter.

“Good for you,” he wheezed. “About to be sacked, indeed—that’s as good a reason as any, I suppose. Got away clean, then?”

“Wouldn’t say that,” Thomas murmured. “The only way out was through France.”

Courtenay’s face fell, and Thomas deeply regretted spoiling the mood.

“Out of the frying pan,” Courtenay said, softly, “and into the fire.”

“What about you, sir?” Thomas asked, hesitantly. “What did you do before the war?”

* * *

Courtenay’s moods came and went. One minute, he let Thomas scribble down a letter to his family that was as vapid and jolly as anything Lord Grantham would say when deep in his cups. The next, he wouldn’t speak to Thomas at all.

_It doesn’t help me to be lied to, you know_, he seethed. Clarkson had said as much, and Thomas hadn’t listened.

_I’m finished. All the things I’ll never do again…_

Something about the Lieutenant’s shattered dreams moved Thomas, touched the heart he’d vehemently deny he had at all—and he couldn’t fathom _why_. What should he care for Little Lord Fauntleroy and his stable of polo ponies gone dusty with disuse? Who was he to mourn for the little prince who’d never known hardship before now? What should he care for one tragedy out of a hundred thousand new ones coming every day?

But something in his voice reminded Thomas of the letters going up in flames, reminded him of his father saying _get out, get out and never come back_, of being trapped some awful place and of being alone with nowhere to go…

Carson would box his ears if he knew Thomas felt kindred spirits with the son of His Most High Whoever-It-Is, with his hunting and shooting and Oxford education. Carson could go hang, Thomas was an army man now. That put him and the Lieutenant—well, not on _equal_ footing. He wasn’t delusional. But they _shared_ something. Spattered in the same mud, thrown by the same bursting shells. They had been baptized by fire. 

Before the war, Thomas had been a firm believer that it was every man for himself. Dog-eat-dog. Homo homini lupus, et cetera, for all the good his two extra years of school had done him. What he had seen men do to each other in the blighted fields of No-Man’s-Land hadn’t much altered his opinion.

But he thought of Lieutenant Courtenay, who stirred only from his misery to ask about his missing men, and he wondered…

Thomas took the draft letter, with its scrawls and crossed-out bits, and spent part of his evening re-copying it in his neatest penmanship. The junior footman who thought he would be butler, writing up invitations to grand balls, seemed like a stranger to him now— but his skills remained.

He finished Lieutenant Courtenay’s letter. He set it aside, waiting for the ink to dry.

He hesitated.

He reached over, and pulled out a new sheet of paper, and began composing a second letter.

_To Whom It May Concern, _

_ I am writing to you with an inquiry about a particular battle that took place on the April 8th of this year; concerning the fates of men of the Duke of Manchester’s Own Regiment involved in the effort at Bullecourt…._

* * *

Lieutenant Courtenay was plagued with terrible dreams. Thomas settled in a chair by his bedside, with a blanket over his lap.

“To keep him quiet,” he whispered, “so the others can get some sleep.”

“You’re not one for special treatment,” Nurse Crawley said.

“It’s a special treat for _me_, to not hear the rest of them pissing and moaning tomorrow.”

“I’m sure,” she replied, eyebrow arched. Thomas didn’t like her tone, but she bade him goodnight without further commentary.

* * *

Nurse Crawley got more slack than she ought; her excellent work and cheerful disposition (and powerful father) buying her more goodwill from her supervisors than was technically allowed. But the some of the other nurses were getting on Thomas’ last nerve.

“If Old Mrs. Crawley comes poking her nose around here again I’ll have her up before a tribunal,” Thomas muttered. “See if I don’t!”

“She’s a very dear woman,” Lieutenant Courtenay chided him. “There’s no call to be so horrid.”

“She’s a miserable old busybody,” Thomas countered, “and if we’d only sent her to Berlin instead of some poncey career diplomat the Kaiser would have blown his brains out, right then and there, and we’d be _free_ of this mess!” 

Lieutenant Courtenay set his mouth in a disapproving look, but his resolve melted and his expression broke into a very fragile smile.

“I say,” he protested, “_blown his brains out_. That’s dreadful. Poor Mrs. Crawley!” But he smiled all the same.

That smile kept Thomas warm for the rest of the day.

* * *

Lieutenant Courtenay favored his mother in looks and nothing else, which was lucky indeed. Thomas recognized her for who she was the moment she appeared in the door, fur stole in the middle of the day, same thin nose and pale complexion.

“Oh, Eddie, mummy’s here,” she cried, nearly falling on to Edward in a tearful embrace. “Oh, my poor little boy—”

“Hello Mother,” Lieutenant Courtenay said, stiffly. “It’s good of you to come.” But he did reach up to return her embrace, and Thomas saw how tightly he clung to her.

“I’ll get you a chair,” Thomas said, after a long moment. A ‘milady’ was probably required, but he didn’t feel up to it.

Courtenay’s mother ignored him. “What happened? Oh my darling boy, what’s happened to you?”

“As I said in my letter,” Courtenay explained, tersely, “I’ve been gassed…”

Thomas retreated, to find the chair he’d promised. As he left, he caught a scrap of conversation that made him pause—

“—Mother, my eyes will _never_ get better. I felt I made that perfectly clear when I wrote—"

* * *

That night was a difficult one for Lieutenant Courtenay, and he nearly sweated through his sheets as he tossed and turned. Thomas leaned in close, “you’re only dreaming, sir—” and nearly took a flailing elbow to the face for his trouble.

“No call for that, sir, it’s only me—” Thomas reassured him, trying to keep the annoyance from his voice.

“Barrow,” Courtenay breathed. “I—Corporal—it’s only you. Oh, thank God.”

“I’m here. Can I get you anything?”

Courtenay turned, reaching an unsteady hand, and managed to grab the front of Thomas’ tunic. “Take me outside,” he said. “Please—please, I need some air.”

He wasn’t, technically speaking, supposed to do anything of the sort. But Thomas draped Lieutenant Courtenay’s coat around his shoulders, and let the man lean heavily on him as they shuffled down the hall and out the back way.

“Where are you taking him?” Nurse Crawley hissed.

“Cover for me?” Thomas asked, in lieu of response. “C’mon. You owe me one.”

Nurse Crawley pursed her lips. “If Major Clarkson asks, I won’t lie for you.”

“Tell him I’m with a patient, that’s not a lie,” Thomas replied, crossly. Lieutenant Courtenay only clung to him, not saying a word.

The air was crisp outside, the last of the April chill finally fading away. The stars twinkled high in the sky, like all the diamonds from Lady Grantham’s jewel box scattered over black velvet. Thomas led Courtenay over to a bench beneath a gnarled old tree, leaves just now emerging form their buds.

Lieutenant Courtenay shivered.

“Should we go back inside, sir?” Thomas asked.

“No,” Courtenay bit off, quickly. “No, I’m—not cold.”

Thomas waited, but he didn’t say anything else. The minutes ticked by. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Let me have one,” Courtenay said, by way of answer. Then: “Please.”

Thomas hesitated. He’d been gassed only scant weeks ago. He hadn’t breathed much, as far as the report said, but… “Sir, your lungs—”

“_Hang_ my stupid bloody lungs!” Courtenay whispered, fiercely.

Thomas wasn’t in the mood to argue. He lit his own cigarette, then took Courtenay’s hand and placed the filter between two fingers. “Up to your mouth,” Thomas ordered, and the lieutenant complied. “Here’s the light—”

It took a few puffs to successfully catch the end. Neither man said anything, and twin trails of smoke reached in vain for the distant stars.

“You would tell me, if there had been news of my men?” Courtenay asked, stiffly. “You wouldn’t hide anything from me?”

“Why would I do something like that, sir?”

A long pause. And then:

“Because I think they’re all dead.”

Courtenay’s voice was small, almost childlike, and he sounded so very, very lost. Thomas hesitated, then came to sit next to him on the bench.

“Is that what you were dreaming of?” Thomas asked, softly. “Would you—like to talk about it?”

Courtenay’s fingers were shaking so badly he almost couldn’t bring the cigarette to his lips. He took a long, shuddering drag,

“We had orders,” Courtenay he started, slowly, “the wire was supposed to be cut. We were to charge in once the guns had stopped and take the lines—there were supposed to be tanks. The tanks never came.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, but he hands were still shaking. The memory shuddered out of him in fits:

“There weren’t any trenches to be had. After two weeks bombardment it was—mud. Ditches in the mud. I knew something was wrong. I knew—I knew when the orders came down. They said take risks…that we were pursuing a defeated enemy. I _knew_ that wasn’t true,” his voice broke, and Thomas’ heart ached. “Anyone with eyes could see it wasn’t true! But I—I wanted it to be over—I wanted us to go _home_—”

“You had orders, sir,” Thomas said, firmly. “You did your duty.”

“I lead them in to a massacre,” Courtenay’s voice was thick. “I should have held, retreated—but I pressed forward—we were _in_ their trenches, for all the good that fucking did—” he stopped short, taking a long, steadying breath.

“When we did retreat—we were routed,” he said, voice small. “Ranks broken, chaos—I don’t remember—it’s all muddled. There was a grenade—it threw me, knocked me into a shell-hole. Into the mud. It had rained, it was filled with water—icy water— and I sank—nearly to my waist—the more I struggled the more I sank, and I heard the shell—heard it shriek—and I saw the gas…it billowed and it—it crept over the edge of the hole—” he was shaking now, but Thomas couldn’t bear to interrupt: “—and I fumbled but I couldn’t—the explosion, I’d lost my kit—I couldn’t find my mask—I pulled my tunic up over my nose but I didn’t think about my _eyes_—I wasn’t thinking—I was so _scared_—”

Thomas leaned close, pressing his shoulder against Courtenay’s. When the lieutenant didn’t pull away, he reached a hesitant arm around the man’s shoulders. Courtenay leaned into the embrace, hands gripping his tunic, pressing his face into Thomas’ chest—

“Please sir, mind your blisters—” Thomas murmured, but Courtenay was choking with sobs.

“They should have left me there,” his voice was high and thin, a soft wail, “they should have let me die—”

“No sir,” Thomas whispered, fiercely. “You were brave. You were so very brave—the boys were glad to come to your rescue—it was their duty and their privilege, sir—”

Courtenay’s sobs mixed with hysterical laughter. “What nonsense,” he choked out, “what utter drivel.” But he didn’t let Thomas go. They stayed that way, together in the dark, until Courtenay’s breathing steadied.

“It must be nearly morning,” he said, quietly. “Whatever they’re paying you, Corporal, it’s not enough.”

“There is such a thing as work ethic,” Thomas said. Courtenay didn’t quite laugh, but he managed an amused huff.

“Let’s—let’s go back inside.” He said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “You must be tired.”

“If you’re ready, sir,” Thomas said.

* * *

The first rays of dawn were pouring through the windows, and Lieutenant Courtenay was fast asleep. The dreams hadn’t bothered him again.

“You’re so fond of him,” Nurse Crawley’s voice in his ear nearly made him jump out of his skin.

“Says who?”

“Anyone with half a brain,” she rolled her eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered. “He’s a patient like any other.”

“Not for you,” she said, piercing blue eyes catching the early sun. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t look so affronted. I think it’s sweet, is all. I’m fond of him too.”

“Mm,” Thomas chose not to comment.

“He’s a nice man—but I worry about him. He’s not making the effort to adjust to his situation.”

“He’s only lost everything,” Thomas snapped. Sybil raised an eyebrow.

“He has his legs and his arms, a family at home, and from what Papa says, _heaps_ of money,” she replied. “There are others who would be so lucky.”

Three years ago he might have been shocked to hear Lady Sybil speak so frankly. That Branson was quite the influence. 

“What do _you_ know?” Thomas bit out, and stalked off.

* * *

He coaxed a little more information from the Lieutenant over the course of the days. Thomas wasn’t technically on duty, but had agreed to mend some buttons for Captain Harwood as he had no idea how— and besides, his arm was blown off. He let his fingers do the work as the Lieutenant rambled on—stories of his childhood, first as the son of country squire in a sleepy backwater, before being catapulted up the ladder by a fortuitous series of deaths that reminded a Thomas a little bit of Matthew Crawley’s story. 

Captain Crawley now, still at the front, still dodging the rain of shells and mayhem. Nearly a year since they’d taken tea in the dugout that auspicious night…

“You’re bored of me,” Courtenay said, with a self-deprecating smile.

“Not at all sir. I’m riveted.”

“Liar,” he replied, but it had an air of fondness. “You know, I don’t know anything about you.”

“You know my name, and occupation, and what I look like—”

“Not hardly. ‘Tall’ is not a vivid descriptor.”

“It’s an accurate one.”

“The imagination runs wild, stuck here in this bed. If you don’t provide me pertinent details about yourself, I shall have to invent them.”

“Oh?” Thomas had never been one for chummy reminisces. His past was behind him, and he made sure it stayed there. His private life was _private_—and with good reason.

Besides, what did he want people poking around in his head for? Why not just hand them a loaded pistol and save everyone some time?

“Corporal, what do you look like?”

“Remember, sir? I have black hair and—”

“No, not like that—I mean, _how_ do you look. Do you have a nice face? A kind face?”

“No,” Thomas answered, simply.

“No help at all. Invention it is. I think…” the Lieutenant put a mock-thoughtful finger on his chin. “You have a dueling scar, from your right eye down your cheek.”

“Makes me sound like a pirate.”

“Ah ha! You are a pirate, a privateer of the high seas.”

Thomas never knew what to make of these moods. The black dog days made sense to him, even if he hated to see the lieutenant dangle limply in their jaws. They didn’t mean he was mad—anyone who’d been to the trenches and _wasn’t_ depressed was the madman.

It was the chipper days that made him sound like a lunatic.

“Not much of a seaport in Downton,” was all he said in reply.

“Yes, but you’ve traveled all over the world— Bombay, Tahiti, the Ivory Coast…”

“I’ve been to France,” Thomas said, without thinking.

“And what did you think of your stay there?”

“Bloody awful, sir. Dreadful country. Shan’t be back.”

“I quite agree,” Courtenay said, primly. “But you’re no fun—Captain Harwood, are you over there? Tell me what you look like…” 

* * *

When he left for the army, he had sworn he would never go back to service. He’d make something of himself or die trying.

Of course, in August of 1914, this was more of a boast than a sober inventory of possibilities.

It was three years later, and while Thomas hadn’t died, he wondered if the war would ever be over, or if it would just drag on and on until there were no more men to fight it—but then, he figured, they would switch to women, and once they were used up to children, until there wasn’t a single human being left anywhere in the world.

But in the event that the war _did_ come to an end, he would need another job. They’d be eager to stop paying him as soon as was possible. He needed to think of a plan.

Service was, naturally, off the table.

“Did you have a manservant, before the war?”

“Never did, it seemed like putting on airs, considering where we started,” the Lieutenant said, thoughtfully. “Fletcher is father’s man, but he looked after me from time to time.”

“But you had a batman, in the trenches?” he pressed.

Lieutenant Courtenay wrinkled his nose, and sighed.

“I did until I didn't. Poor old Danvers, caught a piece of shell on the way up—and poor Marshall, doing double duty until I stopped being his concern. I can’t imagine I’ll see either of them again—why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Thomas said, just a hair too quickly. “Professional curiosity.”

It was like he didn’t remember anything that happened between him and Phillip. It wouldn’t _work_—these things never did, for him. He didn’t even _want_ that kind of life anymore.

It didn’t stop him from considering it.

* * *

“You ought to write a book,” Lieutenant Courtenay mused. “Corporal Barrow’s Instructions For Not Being Such A Big Bloody Fool For Once In Your Life.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “No one listens to me when I verbally convey these teachings, sir, dunno how much good it would be to try and write it all down.” He’d just gotten done dressing down one of the local boys who’d botched a laundry delivery, a calling-up to the carpet that would have made even old Carson blush.

“I suppose you’re right. But if you wrote enough to give it a proper heft, in a pinch you could simply throw it at them.”

Thomas snorted. “I’ve half a mind to start chucking things,” he admitted.

“Of course, your book would be wasted on me,” the lieutenant sounded only a little bit sad, “as I am an incorrigible fool, but you’ve got a way with words. Maybe you should get a column in a magazine. Everyone likes a poison pen.”

“Respectfully sir, you should pull the other one. It’s got bells on.”

“Oh, be pleased with yourself for once. You’re so clever, it’s all for naught if it only makes you miserable.”

“I could say the same of you, sir.”

“Hmm. Perhaps you are _too_ pleased with yourself, that’s the problem.”

“That’s more like it, sir.”

* * *

“You must hate this,” the Lieutenant blurted out, in the middle of his bath.

“Sir?”

“You ran off to the army,” Courtenay elaborated, looking down, “ran through fire and a hail of bullets to get out of service, and yet here you are, bathing and shaving and dressing another man.”

Thomas had considered the irony of his situation. The first few weeks, being barked at and ordered about, scrubbing and hauling to rival anything the meanest maid at the Abbey did—up to his ankles in foul-smelling shit that ran like water out of the latrines—the cruelty and indignity of being a private in the army had been very familiar indeed. Bow and scrap or snap-to and salute—no real difference, was there?

But that had been before the Front, before corpses dumped in a mass grave like broken dolls, before the crying and begging when he tried to quiet them even as their blood gushed hot and stinking over his hands—

The bath was warm and quiet and sweet-smelling. Who could ask for more?

“I don’t mind it,” he said aloud. “Not now, anyways. In training it was good to feel like I already knew _something_, even while the sergeant was making me miserable over every other task.” 

“Hmm,” Courtenay didn’t seem cheered.

“It’s different,” Thomas went on, hesitantly. “I—I’m doing my bit, here. I reckon—not everyone can carry a gun. The whole thing would go to pieces in a day. There’s got to be _logistics_. Someone’s got to keep people fed. Someone’s got to keep them clothed. Someone makes the arrangements to ship the boys off. And when they come back, someone should be there to pitch in and help them out.”

“How very reasonable,” Courtenay murmured. “How noble.”

“Noble?” Thomas asked, genuinely surprised.

“Most of those boys dreamed of honor and glory when they signed up. You’re content with a bedpan.”

“Dunno what I’d do with glory,” Thomas said, cheerfully. “It’s not any good when you need to piss.”

_I’d rather have a bedpan and both my eyes any day_, he thought, but it was cruel and he kept it buried.

“You might be the only sensible person in this whole wretched country,” Courtenay said, bitterly.

“There’s some that would laugh to hear you say it,” Thomas joked, but Courtenay didn’t smile. He was silent for a long moment.

“I hate this,” he said, quietly. Thomas drew back.

“Is something wrong? Can I—?”

“I don’t want you to do _anything_ for me!” Courtenay snapped, with a viciousness that startled Thomas. “You’re so bloody _helpful_ all the fucking time I can’t _fucking_ stand it—” he stopped short, breathing heavily.

“Should I fetch someone else, sir?” Thomas asked. His voice was steady, but he felt shell-shocked.

“No,” Courtenay’s face fell. “No, I—I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry, I don’t mean to—” he pressed his lips together, fighting for control of himself. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and curled in on himself: “I’m acting like a child. Like a spoiled, selfish child. I just feel so helpless—I can’t even dress myself, and—”

“You will sir,” Thomas assured him. “One day, you will wake up, select an outfit, get dressed and shaved, and go down for breakfast without needing another soul to do it.”

_I would do it. I would do it every day for you, if you wanted me to._ Another unspeakable thought. He kept it locked up tight.

“You really believe that?” Courtenay asked.

“I know it sir. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Well,” Courtenay smiled without humor. “I’ll just have to take your word for it, then.”

* * *

Today was the day the Lieutenant’s bandages were coming off for good. Major Clarkson himself was there, to before a final examination to ensure the wounds were closed.

Wounds closing and wounds healing were not always the same thing.

“Everything’s good order,” Clarkson was saying. “We were worried you wouldn’t beat the infection. I’m glad you’ve proved us wrong.”

“Thank you sir,” Courtenay replied, blandly.

“Just a few more things before I leave you be,” Clarkson took a small torch from his pocket, shining it directly into Courtenay’s eyes. There was no reaction, not a flinch, not even a flicker.

Major Clarkson looked at Thomas, meaningfully, and shook his head.

“All done,” he gave Courtenay a hearty clap on the shoulder, and Thomas saw the lieutenant flinch from the touch. “Perhaps today you’ll get out and enjoy the fresh air.”

Clarkson took off, making a few notes on his clipboard. Lieutenant Courtenay sat on the bed, uncertain of what to do next. Thomas took the time to admire the first real, unobstructed view of the man’s face—thin, fine-cut features, long lashes over grey eyes—

“Corporal,” Courtenay asked, suddenly. “I must put it to you frankly. Am I—disfigured?”

“No sir,” Thomas said, weakly, and wished to God he wasn’t so bloody obvious.

“You mustn’t lie to me,” Courtenay admonished him.

“I wouldn’t, sir. There are some scars, but they’re not—that is to say—you’ve got all your face, and its—” _a fine thing to look at sir quite attractive really it’s gorgeous it’s bloody fantastic you look especially handsome today sir why sir that’s a face a bloke should like to kiss you know you’re really quite dishy sir if you don’t mind my saying so_—

“Nothing’s missing and nothing’s been rearranged,” Thomas settled on. “Everything present and accounted for. No one should look twice.”

That was a lie. Thomas would be taking a second, and a third, and fourth look…

“Same as before, then,” Courtenay muttered, but he smiled.

* * *

Lieutenant Courtenay dressed himself for the first time since he was wounded. It took him ages, but he insisted on doing it without help, even when he spent ten minutes fumbling with an inside-out sleeve. They both agree to forgo the tie for the day, and all Thomas needs to do is point out a misaligned button.

“Excellent work, sir,” Thomas says.

“Tomorrow, I will do better,” Courtenay promises, determinedly.

* * *

“Post for you, Lieutenant,” Thomas announces. Courtenay isn’t pleased.

“Another missive from mother,” he groused.

“You don’t know that,” Thomas says, settling in the chair next to his bed. “Could be a scandalous message from your sweetheart.”

“That would be quite peculiar,” Courtenay said, with wry smile, “seeing as I haven’t got one.”

“You will soon enough,” Thomas joked. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince—the lieutenant or himself. “The village girls love their dashing officers.”

“Do you know that for a fact, Corporal? Taken up with a village girl?”

“No sir, much too busy.” The lie is so quick and easy he doesn’t even think about it anymore.

“I hope you’re not a bachelor on my account,” Courtenay mused. Thomas’ heart leapt in his throat.

“Not as such, sir.”

“Oh?”

“Things are—complicated,” Thomas settled on, heart hammering. “It’s a long story.”

“Too bad,” Courtenay said. “Strapping young men, wounded in the line of fire, and not a single girl to be found between them. They’ll want to know what’s wrong with us.”

Thomas was a bloody fool who should never open his big stupid mouth. “Well, until one shakes loose, would you like me to read your letter?”

“You might as well. Can’t keep mother waiting—heaven knows she’s the only girl I’ve got.”

* * *

Before the war, it would have been unthinkable to weep, tear one’s clothes, howl at the sky with grief and rage. But at the Front brave faces crumpled, lips trembled, men reached for Thomas with bloodied stumps where their hands used to be and cried for him to bring their mothers. Shocking. Appalling. Disgraceful.

Who could blame them?

When they wanted to be brave, he was brave with them, forcing out a cavalier air as he ordered them to hold their own guts before they spilled out into the mud. When they wanted solitude, he left them alone.

When they wanted to be touched, he brushed hair from their faces and smoothed their uniforms and sometimes, in the lonely dark, he held them close.

He never, ever got the wrong idea about what was happening between them. 

Before he could have ever imagined brains splattered on the duckboards his father had taught him that there were uncrossable spaces between men, between Thomas and the rest of the world, that to stick one’s head over the parapet would earn a bullet, that attempting to cross risked stepping on a mine.

How many years had Thomas spent tangled in barbed wire before he learned better?

There was always time to re-entrench. There was always new wire being strung. The walls would come back. There would be a crisp dismissal—_thank you Thomas, that will be all._

He wasn’t an idiot.

_Lieutenant Courtenay, too moved for words, somehow found his knee and squeezed. Thomas hesitated, and reached—reached out with his bare hand—they touched and it was a flare bursting to life, high in the sky, turning night into day—Courtenay didn’t pull away from him, they stayed like that, skin-to-skin, searching in the dark and having been found—_

Thomas tried not to think of the warmth under his hand, the comforting weight on his knee. He tried to put it out of his mind. He was an army medic. He wasn’t a lovestruck fool.

_Don’t be stupid,_ he told himself, when he ran the fingers of his mangled hand over the palm of his whole one, hours later feeling residual warmth.

_Don’t be stupid_, he pleaded with his heart.

* * *

He was afraid the letter from home had knocked the wind from the Lieutenant’s sails. The prospect of being formally set aside in favor of his brother seemed to have exterminated any semblance of life he’d been imaging for himself after the hospital.

_You have to fight back_, Thomas begged him. They were survivors, him and the Lieutenant, in this horrible fucking war—this horrible fucking _place_— that took everything soft and ground it into grisly pulp. But each setback beat him back further, each loss cost more and more—

Thomas had to fight for everything he got—every position, every penny, every breath of new life—he was born fighting.

_It didn’t break me. Don’t let it break you_, he wanted to say. _Someone should win because they are strong and brave and kind, and not just cause they’re the biggest bastard of the lot. _

A child’s trunk of broken toy soldiers, and this was the one he mourned for. Stupid. He was the stupidest man alive. They had nothing in common.

They were different—but not in the same way.

“Corporal?” Courtenay’s hesitant question pulled him out of his self-pity.

“Sir?”

“I want—I want to try and walk with the stick,” he said, hesitantly. “Can we—can we have a go at it outside?”

_I knew it. I knew you were a fighter._

“I’ll get Nurse Crawley,” Thomas said, trying not to sound too relieved. “It’ll be nice to stretch your legs, sir.”

Very nice indeed.

* * *

When Thomas got the orders—home service for the rest of the war, at Downton Cottage Hospital—he knew it was nothing but his own ruthless desire for life that got him there. There was no higher power that saved his fingers, that kept gangrene at bay, that made the doctors look the other way from his picture-perfect blighty. He’d risked it. He gambled everything—and he won. He _earned_ it.

And if he felt that taking proper care of the men in his charge— poor brave bastards too stupid to run, nearly too stupid to live—was his way of balancing his books, then—well. That was that. He didn’t need to kick anything else up. The matter could be settled, fair play to him.

He wasn’t about to blow it by making waves. Thank God for service—he knew how to keep them happy up the chain. No troubles, no questions, no need to look any closer. 

Those two orders were set on a collision course.

_He’s not ready_, he mumbled, nearly staring at the floor, scared and cowed in a way he hadn’t been since he was a child, shaking in his boots because Clarkson was going to send him back to the Front if he spoke up—

\--and something even more terrible might happen if he kept quiet.

_Please sir I’m concerned for his well-being. Lieutenant Courtenay isn’t strong enough to go_—

Lady Sybil, valiant and foolish, came crashing in and waving her sword like she was bloody Joan of Arc.

It didn’t do a lick of good.

* * *

_Don’t send me away_, the Lieutenant begged. Thomas packed his things with tears in his eyes.

_Please don’t send me away_.

* * *

Thomas wasn’t on night shift. He had to sleep at some point. He stopped by Lieutenant Courtenay’s bedside before he punched out.

“I’m going to think of something,” he promised the man, in a low voice. “I—I dunno what, but I’m going to make sure they take proper care of you over there.”

“That’s kind of you.” The lieutenant sounded distant.

“And I’ll—I’ll get over there, on my leave days. I’ll visit, to make sure they’re doing it properly.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me,” Courtenay said. He didn’t roll to face Thomas, the way he usually did.

“Can’t help it. In the job description, you know.”

Courtenay’s lips twitched upwards, but his eyes were solemn, staring somewhere into the ether. “You’ve been a friend to me,” he said, softly. “You’re the truest friend I’ve ever known.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Thomas started, “but it’s a kind thing to say, sir.”

Courtenay didn’t reply to that. Thomas should leave—but he was reluctant. He didn’t want to part at all.

“Corporal?” Courtenay called. “Are you still there?”

“I am sir.”

“Do you—” Courtenay paused, running a tongue over his teeth, “—do you believe in Hell?”

If you’d asked him nearly a year ago, back on the Somme, he’d have answered an unequivocal _yes, and we are there right now_. He was tempted to say the same today as well.

But, theologically speaking?

“No sir,” he settled on.

“Why not?” Courtenay asked, mildly.

“Self-interest, sir.”

“Self-interest,” he repeated, and gave Thomas another one of those sad, distant smiles. “Yes, I feel the same.” Then, abruptly: “It’s getting late. You’re off-duty tonight.”

“I am, but I can—”

“Goodnight, Corporal Barrow.” Courtenay said, softly. “Thank you, for everything.”

“Goodnight, sir,” Thomas said. He reached over, took the Lieutenant’s hand in his own, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

The Lieutenant did not return the gesture.

When Thomas stepped out into the night air, he shuddered without knowing why.

It was like someone walked over his grave.

* * *

Thomas paced back and forth.

_Something’s wrong. I should be down there._

No, don’t be stupid. Take your things off and go to sleep.

But he didn’t undress.

_Something’s wrong._

He smoked his way to the end of his pack. He picked up a book, and then threw it as hard he could against the wall.

_Something’s wrong, _he thought, ready to boil over.

_Then why are you still here?_

He put on his coat and stalked back to the ward.

* * *

he knew right away that it wasn’t right the hair stood up on the back of his next the lieutenants breath was so shallow and labored whats all this sir are you quite well and then there was a wetness on his sheets blood dripped on the floor falling in fat red drops drip drip drip on the floorboards he saw only flashes of red in the light of his torch but smelled it felt it sticky and hot on his hands and he froze he was cold all over but his head was pounding there was the sergeants voice in his brain screaming PRIVATE BARROW THERES AN OPEN WOUND HOP TO IT OR THIS MAN WILL DIE but his fingers were so stiff and slow he felt like he was moving underwater he threw back the covers and the lieutenant gasped STUPID OAF MOVE IT PRIVATE he was so pale and his skin was clammy but he was sweating _this is a sign of shock _he remembered very well the words printed in neat type in the pamphlet buried somewhere in his kit MOVE YOU STUPID BLOODY FOOL DON’T BE CLUMSY NOW a glint in the light of his torch it was a shaving razor that morning he said sir do be careful with that but he said it like it was a joke he hadnt meant anything by it YOU WORTHLESS CLOD THERE’S A LIFE ON THE LINE MOVE MOVE MOVE—

* * *

He pounded on Nurse Crawley’s door, hands still tacky with blood. 

“Thomas?” She rubbed her eyes, annoyed. “What on earth do you—” she stopped short, seeing his blotchy face still wet with tears.

“He’s hurt himself,” was the only explanation he could manage.

She froze—for a single breath neither of them moved—then she pushed past him, legging down the hallway in just her dressing-gown.

They moved him to the quarantine room, after triage, every muffled footstep and gasp ringing like a gunshot in the still of night. He was so pale, and his skin was so cold it was like he was already dead—

But there was his pulse, fluttering weakly just under his jaw, and Thomas kept his fingers pressed to that unsteady but persevering beat-beat-beat—

No time to reassure himself. They weren’t finished yet.

“We have to tell the Major,” Lady Sybil was saying, fearfully. “He needs sutures—”

“I can do it,” Thomas said.

“But you’re not supposed to—”

“I’m going to,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

“You’re not sanitary!”

Thomas looked down—his tunic was stained with blood— the lieutenant’s blood, all across his chest and his sleeves. It was nothing compared to the gore he’d been spattered with at the front, but his stomach roiled at sight and he wanted to vomit. He fumbled at the buttons with shaking fingers, and tore his tunic off before he fully realized what he was doing.

He threw it on the floor.

He rolled up the sleeves of his greyback to his elbows, and went to the sink. The water steamed as it came out of the faucet, and his hands were red and raw before his withdrew them.

“Thomas, please, you’ll get into trouble—”

But he wasn’t listening to her.

* * *

The Lieutenant moaned and thrashed, disoriented as he had been the day he’d arrived—he mumbled with blue lips that he was cold, about the freezing water and mud in the shell-hole, and Nurse Crawley brought hot water bottles and blankets until his color improved.

“Poor thing,” Nurse Crawley murmured. “Poor, unhappy man.”

Thomas felt numb. The energy that had hammered in his veins for the past few hours had finally subsided, leaving him drained of anything. He felt like he’d lived a thousand years in one night.

He felt absolutely nothing at all.

He was so bloody tired…

“We can’t tell anyone what happened,” he heard himself speak, distant and hollow.

“We have to. He’s supposed to be moved tomorrow.”

“We’ll say its flu,” Thomas said, the plan coming together in fits and starts. “We say its flu, and keep the other nurses out, so they don’t see his wrists—he can’t be moved, not for weeks, and it gives me time to find a way to keep him close—”

“Thomas,” Lady Sybil said, and he was too tired to protest. “We can’t—there are rules—”

“We have to. They almost killed him. It’s up to us now—that is, if you want him to pull through.”

“Of course I do! But _listen_ to yourself—”

But her pleading fell on deaf ears. Thomas picked up his bloodstained tunic, and shoved it towards her.

“This is evidence—we have to get rid of it. The sheets, too— the mattress can be saved but we have to act fast—”

The lieutenant stirred, and Thomas went to his side.

“Don’t fuss,” he said, distantly. “I’ll have it taken care of, don’t you worry.”

“Thomas,” he turned, and Nurse Crawley was looking at him with a pitying expression she usually saved for the hopeless cases. “If I’m going to help you,” she started, “you have to tell me the truth.” 

He only stared at her, waiting.

“Do you—” she hesitated, clutching the bloody tunic tight. “Are you so—fond— of Lieutenant Courtenay—because the things the other nurses say about you are true?”

Thomas blinked. He had a thousand excuses, misdirections, lies he kept at the ready on the tip of his tongue. None of them came to him now. He looked at her, opened his mouth, to say something that would make it all right—

_Gossipy hens. I’ll have them scrubbing floors with a toothbrush_, he thought, and collapsed into a chair beside the bed.

“Thomas! Thomas!” Nurse Crawley was patting his cheek, quickly, firmly— “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I don’t care about any of that, I just want to know if it’s true—because they say you look at him like that because you’re—”

“Nevermind what they say about me,” he managed. “I’m—I’m the only one who gives a damn about him. I have to go with him—to protect him from what he’s done. He could go to prison for this…”

“So could you, if people knew why you cared,” Sybil said, fearfully.

What could he say to that?

“I could,” he agreed. “Haven’t yet. Don’t intend to now.”

She only nodded.

* * *

He stayed there all night, too rattled to sleep—Sybil was true to her word, disappearing with anything incriminating and bringing him a fresh uniform hours later.

“You hid it? You hid it well?”

“I took care of it,” she said, firmly. “You need to rest.”

“No, I—” he stopped. “Sir? Sir are you awake?”

“Corporal,” the lieutenant sounded parched, and Nurse Crawley hurried to bring him some water.

“Corporal—are you here—with me—”

“Yes,” he said, “I’m here, I’m right here, and everything’s going to be alright now—”

“You stopped me,” Courtenay whispered.

“I did.”

The lieutenant lay against the pillow, eyes open, staring beyond the ceiling into nothing. His expression crumpled. His eyes filled with tears.

“Bastard,” he sobbed, “awful, wretched man—why would you do that? How could you—how _could_ you—?"

Thomas went to soothe him, but he rolled away from him, hysterical.

“Sir, they’ll hear you—” 

“_Bastard!” _he wailed.

* * *

When Thomas returned to his quarters, hours later, he brought his fist down on his mattress—again, again, wild and frantic, until tears ran down his face—

He put his face in his pillow and screamed.

* * *

“You need to eat,” Thomas was telling him. His voice was hoarse. His face felt sore and stiff from crying. “You won’t get better if you don’t eat.”

The lieutenant didn’t stir. He lay curled on his side. Thomas thought, wildly, about flinging the bowl of broth in his face—he wanted to hit the man, strike him across the face, then grab him across the shoulders and scream in his face _how could you do that to me how can you be like this doesn’t it mean anything to you at all_—

“Go to bed,” Sybil put a hand on his shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“I told them you’ve had some bad news. Cousin Isobel’s had your shifts covered. Get some sleep,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on him now.”

He could only nod his thanks.

* * *

Their ruse barely lasted a few days.

“Corporal Barrow,” Clarkson was standing over him, with barely-concealed fury. “My office. _Now_.”

Thomas put down the clipboard he’d been working on, and found that his hands were shaking. But he followed Clarkson with his back straight and head held high—his best blank face screwed on tight.

“I went to check on Lieutenant Courtenay,” Clarkson was saying. “As I feared that the flu could have left him in a an exceptionally fragile condition. Imagine my _shock_—” the word was nearly a shout, and Thomas trembled, because there was his father standing over him with his hand raised— “my utter _shock_ to find that Lieutenant Courtenay does not, in fact, _have_ influenza. Where you aware of this, Corporal?”

Thomas opened his mouth, but couldn’t force any words out.

“Imagine how absolutely fucking _gobsmacked_ I was to find that not only was Lieutenant Courtenay not suffering from _any_ highly-infectious disease, but that at some point in the past few days he had _cut his wrists nearly to the bone_. Where you aware of this, Corporal? Because I was _not_!”

“Sir,” Thomas said, miserably, but couldn’t think of anything to add in his defense.

“It’s late for that, Corporal! It’s very late indeed! You have one chance before I have you arrested for insubordination to tell me what in hell you were thinking—if, in fact, you were thinking at all!”

“Lieutenant Courtenay attempted suicide, sir,” his voice was so, so small. “I saved his life.”

“Don’t you get smart with me! You lied to me! You bucked the chain of command! You’ve left it in bloody shambles!”

“They’ll lock him up,” he insisted. “They’ll punish him— because he survived—”

“That decision happens so far above your head it may as well be made at the Throne of Heaven by God Himself! You don’t _get_ a say, Corporal!” Clarkson was red-faced, and Thomas was sure he would strike him. He braced for it.

The Major took a long, steadying breath.

“You have put your job, my job, the well-being of our patients, and the integrity of this hospital at risk,” Clarkson’s voice was lower, steadier, but he was still furious. “By all rights you should be up before a court martial right now. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Thomas was a survivor. When he couldn’t win a fight, he ran. He should have scarpered days ago, hopped the Channel and headed for Switzerland until the world went back normal.

But the world would never go back to normal. Things were different now. _He_ was different.

He raised his chin, and met Clarkson’s eyes.

“I would do it again, sir.” He said, evenly.

“Corporal—!”

“They told me to save patients, and I saved my bloody patient!” Thomas wondered who this fool was, using his mouth to talk like that to the man about to ruin his life. He felt as if he were watching it happen from some faraway vantage point, an observation balloon high in the air. “I told you he was depressed! I was worried he would hurt himself! I was _right_! You nearly killed him for the sake of a bed!”

“Corporal Barrow I’m warning you—”

“—and I couldn’t tell you, because you would have reported it! You would have told! He doesn’t need a prison, he needs care! What’s the sense of saving his life if he dies from foul air in prison? What’s the bloody point?”

The appeal seemed to reach Clarkson, if only for a moment. He watched Thomas with guarded eyes. But:

“I’m sorry for him, I truly am, but we have to report this,” he said, firmly. “It’s the law.”

“Hang the stupid bloody law! It’s your fault!” Thomas was seized by something burning and white hot, like the fire that kept him fighting for himself, only it burned so clean and true that he knew it wasn’t for him alone.

“—and if you try to court martial him—if you try to get me—I’ll tell them that! I tell them you were _negligent_, that I _told you_ he was depressed—”

“That’s enough! Corporal you are so far out of line it can scarcely be believed—”

“I don’t care!” Thomas shouted back. “How do you think that will go for you? Lord Grantham will be there, he’ll back me up—”

“They don’t give a tinker’s damn what a self-important country squire—”

“He’s Lord Lieutenant of the North Riding!” Thomas nearly screamed. “_They’ll_ give a damn what he thinks—and he’s not the only one! You think Lieutenant Courtenay doesn’t have any powerful friends? Someone with the ear of Haig? If they found out you almost _killed_ him you’ll swing for it, I’ll see it done even if it means I get the noose myself—”

Clarkson was nearly purple. “You ungrateful little worm,” he hissed. “I’m the one who secured you a place in the corps. I’m the one who brought you back here—”

“I’ll tell them that, too! I’ll tell them everything! There’s already been a coverup, I’ll say you knew about it, that it was all your idea—that you hid your cock-up to try and save your own skin!”

Clarkson was quiet for a long moment. “You’re keeping him from getting treatment that he needs,” he said, quietly. “He has an illness of the mind, one that needs _months_ of care, and we don’t have space for him— be reasonable, man! He has to go!”

“He’ll go,” Thomas agreed, overcome by a strange sense of calm—a sense of purpose. “He’ll go to Farley Hall. And when he does, I’m going with him.”

“You will not,” Clarkson barked. “I won’t— I _can’t_. It’s not in my power!”

“You leave that to me,” Thomas said. “You leave it to me, and you don’t say anything when I go—or I’ll bring down fire and brimstone on this whole bloody place, so help me—”

“You filthy ingrate,” Clarkson seethed, “you _weaselly_ little prick.” But since he hadn’t called the MPs yet, it was clear Thomas’ threat had real teeth.

He held his chin up.

“Sir. Am I dismissed?”

Clarkson glowered, like he wanted to take it further. But there was no way out. “All this for one man?” he asked, finally.

“Yes sir.”

“_Why_?”

“Nevermind why,” Thomas said. “I didn’t save his life so he could take it again. I’m seeing this through to the end.” 

* * *

Thomas tried not to be angry with Lieutenant Courtenay. 

The Lieutenant made no such effort for him.

“You’re horrible,” he said. “You’re a beast.”

“So they say,” Thomas replied, mildly. “But you’ll get bedsores if you don’t get up, and I’m sick of turning you. Now, up on your feet Lieutenant, one, two, three—"

* * *

Sybil had connections, strings she could pull. Thomas had favors to call in—notice that payment had come due. Between the two of them, they matched force to fulcrum, finding which levers would start the wheels grinding…

But it was so slow, so painfully slow, and the fire in the Lieutenant had been replaced with cold ashes. He lay still, so still, that even with his chest rising and falling he seemed like he was already dead. The few times Thomas got him up on his feet he took shambling steps, pale and haunted—a ghost of himself—

Thomas sat at his bedside, rubbed his hand, and tried to breathe life into him once again.

_Come back to me_, he begged. _Come back…_

* * *

“I’ve got good news, sir,” Thomas said.

Lieutenant Courtenay didn’t respond.

“You’re going to Farley Hall a week from now,” Thomas went on, blithely. That got his attention—Courtenay rolled over.

“Is this a joke?” he asked, hoarsely.

“No sir,” Thomas said. “You’re going to be relocated,” he leaned in closer, his voice low: “and so am I.”

The lieutenant seemed to process this news slowly. “You’re—being moved as well? With me?”

“Yes sir.”

“But that’s not allowed…”

“Not technically speaking, no. But I’ve managed it.”

Lieutenant Courtenay didn’t smile. His expression never changed from its dull, pale stare. He didn’t seem to react to the news at all.

Then, he reached out his hand, slowly, and Thomas seized it—and was rewarded with a firm squeeze.

“You’ve managed it,” the Lieutenant repeated, softly. “Thank God.”

* * *

Clarkson could hardly look at him, in those last few days. They both gave each other wide berth on the ward, and Thomas’ daily reports were frosty indeed.

_I’ll write, of course,_ Sybil had said. _Every day. And I’ll visit you, whenever I have leave. _

_ Will you be alright here? Clarkson suspects—_

_ There’s not much he can do, I’m afraid. Papa would be dreadfully cross if he put me in prison. _

_ Morale on the ward would plummet. The men would die of grief. _

_ Oh, stop—_

_ You're the Rose of Downton Cottage Hospital… _

_ Thomas! What a sweet thing to say…_

“You’re on your own,” Clarkson told him, when the transport pulled up to the gate. “I’ll have no more part of this.”

This was nothing new. Thomas was always on his own. He wondered if he should say something— an apology, or farewell— but he didn’t want to, and Clarkson didn’t want anything from him.

“Will that be all then, sir?”

Clarkson’s jaw set tight. “Yes, Barrow. That will be all.”

Thomas threw up one last, crisp salute.

Then he climbed in the passenger seat, shutting the door behind him. He turned, taking one last check that all the officers were secured and comfortable for the ride.

“Ready sirs?” he asked.

“Get on with it, Corporal, we haven’t all day,” Major Renfield joked, and the others laughed.

“You heard the man,” Thomas told the driver. “Step on it.”

* * *

If asked, Thomas could provide a neat list of all the things he didn’t believe in:

  1. God, including such subsections as fate, destiny, a natural order etc.
  2. Tidy storybook endings
  3. Sticking your neck out for someone you barely knew

When the transport pulled up to Farley Hall, he wondered if he was losing his mind—if he’d had his bell rung so many times by falling shells that it’d got just a little bit cracked. It would explain what he was doing here, all the dreamlike, incoherent madness of the past few weeks.

“And here we are, last but certainly not least, Lieutenant Courtenay—easy sir, its gravel here, on this last step—”

Steadying himself with the stick and Thomas’ arm, the lieutenant successfully—if not gracefully— exited the bus. He was standing well on his own two feet, which was why it confused and alarmed Thomas when he leaned over and bumped against his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispered, then righted himself, pretending to have stumbled.

There didn’t need to be a logical reason for everything he did, Thomas decided. It was unwise to act without a plan, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped. He had no idea what the next few months would bring, whether the war would end, what would be come of him or the Lieutenant or what they had together. Perhaps one of them would die, or be jailed, or they’d simply fall out and go their own ways and never see one another again. Maybe the war that had brought them together would split them apart once again.

But for now, the uncertain future didn’t trouble him. He was at pace with this moment, this space and time he found himself dwelling in.

Some things just felt right.

* * *

It would be nearly two months before Thomas would admit he was helplessly, hopelessly, head over heels in love.


	2. Farley Hall

_ He was having the dream again. _

_ He dreamed he was riding King, galloping so fast they were flying—whipping past trees and leaping over fences, his heart pounding with every jump, every near-disaster, free as the wind, unshakable, invincible—_

_ \--without warning King came to a shuddering halt, sent him flying for real, and he soared through the air but before he could crash he spread his wings, flapping frantically—_

_ \--crack, crack, he dodged the shots frantically, but when he looked down it wasn’t tweed-clad gentlemen but Huns with bristly mustache and pickelhaube and he was struck—_

_ \--he hit the ground running, but he heard the horn behind him, the baying of hounds—he ran and ran, but the grass turned to sticky, sucking mud beneath his feed and he could barely move, he sank to his knees in the mud and he heard the high whine of the incoming shells—he saw the clouds of gas—_

“It’s alright, sir, you’re only dreaming—”

“Sergeant,” Edward gasped. The images were gone—his eyes were open, but he peered uselessly into the darkness. “Sergeant—”

“Easy, sir,” Barrow smoothed the hair off his forehead—an altogether too familiar gesture, one he wouldn’t have allowed from anyone else. But Barrow—he was different. “It was only a dream. Go back to sleep.”

“My horse—I was riding—they were shooting at us, they shot me—”

“The bosche isn’t here, sir. They can’t get you here,” Barrow assured him. “Your horse is safe too. Go back to sleep. I’ll keep watch.” 

“Stay,” Edward begged, “stay here—”

“I will sir,” Barrow took his hand, squeezing it. “I promise.”

* * *

“He’s called King,” Edward was explaining, the next day. “It’s short for King of the Wind—what are you snickering at?”

“It’s quite a name for a horse, sir,” Barrow said, quickly regaining composure.

“Father wanted to call him Godolphin, but I thought it was ghastly and affected.”

“But King of the Wind isn’t fussy at all.”

“Oh shut up, it’s a fitting name,” Edward smiled, taking the sting out of his rebuke. His relationship with Barrow was too comfortable for any kind of pretend formality. “You’ve never seen him run. When he gallops, we fly…” Edward trailed off, the memories turning sour.

Barrow might one day see King fly across the moors, but he never would.

“Who knows what will become of him now,” Edward mused. “I suppose Jack will get a good price for him, with his pedigree—if he doesn’t sell him for glue just to spite me.”

“You don’t know that they’ll sell him at all,” Barrow reassured him. “Remember, sir, you mustn’t let those thoughts overwhelm you—”

“I _know_!” Edward snapped. He took a long, slow breath, releasing his clenched fist. “I—I know. I don’t mean to snarl. You deserve it least of all. I’m sorry.”

“Quite alright, sir,” Barrow said, his voice betrayed no emotion—which likely meant that Edward had _really_ upset him. He knew Barrow well enough now to recognize his service-voice. 

“Barrow—” he reached out, and managed to get hold of the other man’s arm. “I mean it. I was wrong to shout.”

“Don’t worry about it.” That, at least, sounded genuine. 

“I shouldn’t talk that way,” Edward went on, lowering his voice, “you’re the man who saved my life…”

Edward hadn’t thanked him for it, not at first. He’d raged at his continued existence, cursed the man who forced it on him, heaped abuse on him and anyone who came near—in general, behaved in an unreasonable and ungentlemanly manner.

Once, Barrow had been trying to read to him from _Wuthering Heights_ (‘its my favorite, sir’) and Edward had grabbed the book from his hand and thrown it across the room, _if I hear one more bloody fucking word from this god damned book I’ll blow my fucking brains out_—

It was something ugly inside him, all the worst parts of him from Before married with the guilt and frustration and hate that came After. He hated it. He hated himself for harboring it.

But Barrow took it with a frankly Christlike patience. _I know what it’s like to lash out_, he said, when Edward finally apologized for his behavior.

“Saving people is my job, sir,” Barrow said. “Glad to be of service.”

“Don’t be cheeky. I’m serious.”

There was a scrape of chair against the wooden floor, and Barrow took a seat beside him. “I know. You need to take your time getting better, sir. It’s vital that you take it easy while you recover. Setbacks—slip ups—they shouldn’t trouble you.”

Edward was struck by the thought that if Barrow could physically carry all his troubles for him, he’d do it without a thought. _A batman to carry my black dog_.

“Why are you so good to me?” Edward murmured, careful of any listening ears.

Barrow hesitated— “Well sir—it’s only that—I mean to say—that night…you said we were— friends. If it’s not impertinent—I’d like to think we are—good friends.”

“We are. Very much so.” How could they not be, after all that?

“And, well—I don’t have that many. Friends, that is—so I’ve got to hang on to the ones I’ve got.”

“Yours is an iron grip, indeed,” he mused. He felt as though Barrow had single-handedly hauled him back up over the side of a cliff.

“Sergeant, may I have your hand?” Edward asked, suddenly.

“Sir?” it was the first question the he’d asked that seemed to knock Barrow off-kilter.

“The one without the glove, please?” Edward held out his hands, expectantly, and Barrow surrendered his own. Edward explored it with his fingertips—the back was smooth and mostly unremarkable, though he did find that Barrow was back to chewing his nails. He imagined the fingertips were stained yellow, given the way the man reeked of cigarettes. He turned Barrow’s hand palm-up, tracing the lines he found on the palm, finding the calluses—

Pausing when Barrow shuddered at the slow touch—

“Ticklish, sergeant?” Edward asked.

“A little, sir. Did you find what you’re looking for?”

“I think so. I want to remember your hand, so I know right away when its you touching me.”

Barrow swallowed, but Edward pretended his hadn’t heard.

“I know your wear a glove on the other one, but can I—?”

“Barrow!” that was the harsh bark of the new major—Wainwright, or something. He seemed to have even less patience for Barrow than Clarkson had. “Stop shirking!”

“Yes sir! Sorry sir!” Thomas was on his feet, his hand snatched from Edward’s grasp to be thrown up in what Edward assumed was a hurried salute.

“You have other duties, you know. Sometimes you act as though we’ve only one patient in this entire operation,” heard Wainwright’s voice disappear as he and Thomas left the room, the dressing-down apparently still ongoing: “I don’t know who pulled strings to get you here but if your performance continues in an unsatisfactory manner I shall have you on the wheel…”

* * *

The days at Farley Hall were long and lazy. They arrived in early June, just as summer was starting in earnest, and everything seemed slow and sleepy. There were birdcalls on the grounds, insects buzzing in the tall grass, the fragrant smell of trees in bloom, and everywhere he turned new leaves and new growth under his fingertips.

He felt as though he was beginning to wake from a thousand year sleep—as though he too had been dormant, dead, in the grip of some winter that had nearly frozen him to death. It took so long to resurface from the icy waters, to come back into the realm of the living, that looking back none of what had happened before seemed real. He half expected that one day he would wake up and open his eyes to see the familiar surroundings of his dug-out, roll out of bed in time to stand-to, and things would go back to the way they were…

But nothing would ever be as it was.

The weeks of illness, both in body and mind, made the passage of time seem fuzzy. Trying to remember certain events was like trying to catch smoke in his hands. It was hard to remember what was real—had he ever been a middling student of classics? Had he ever clamored over the top, charged into No Man’s Land? Had he ever led men into battle? Had he ever tried to take his own life? Who _was_ that man? He felt like a stranger.

“What are you thinking about, sir?”

Edward smiled. “Nothing exciting,” he said. “Only daydreaming.”

He could never admit it, but he was most afraid that one day he’d wake up and find that Barrow was just another dream. He felt fevered, sometimes, thinking about Barrow, he dreaded the day that fever would break and he found the man had never been there at all.

Sometimes, in his more fanciful moments, he wondered if Barrow—clever, cunning, sharp, and quick— was a man at all, or if he would melt into mist if his true nature was guessed. That such a true friend should appear to him when he had lost everything else…

Conceited, to think Barrow existed only at his behest. Was it really so surprising that there was a decent and upright man in the middle of this worldwide fit of madness?

“Pleasant daydreams, I hope.”

“You’d laugh at me. I’m waxing poetic.”

_ Once there was a boy who thought he was a man, who tried to play at war and realized toy soldiers break so very easily. The gods have no tolerance for the pride of men and cast him down with a single hurled thunderbolt. Luckily for him, he was found by an enchanted fox, a servant of the castle in the dales…._

Edward smiled to himself. No-nonsense Sergeant Barrow would think he’d lost his mind. Maybe so—the scars beneath his cuffs seemed a compelling argument.

“I should like to know a war poet, sir,” Barrow was doing some musing of his own. “It would bring a little prestige to this place, I reckon. Of course, dirty limericks don’t count. Otherwise every Tom, Dick, and Harry sitting in the trenches with his thumb up his arse would be a war poet.”

“Be careful, Sergeant, or I’ll compose a poem about you.”

“A dirty one?”

“That you would be so lucky!”

“Nurse Crawley showed me some of the poems from your classes. They’re really quite unsuitable.”

Edward was reminded, unhappily, of sunny afternoons with a book open on one knee and a head of tousled blond hair leaning against the other, reading the passages back and forth to each other and finding divine inspiration—

“That’s nothing to do with me. I’m afraid you’ll have to take it up with the Greeks,” was all he said in response.

* * *

The whimsical mood continued in the evening, as he and Barrow sat on a low crumbling wall at the edge of the estate, sharing cigarettes.

“I’ve guessed your secret,” he said, mischievously. “What makes you so different.”

“Have you now?” Barrow asked, distantly.

“Yes. You’re a bespelled prince from the land of foxes.”

“I—Sir?” Pure bafflement.

“I know all about it, so its no use trying to lie to me.”

“I—I don’t know how you mean—”

“You were chased away from the passage to your kingdom by a pack of dogs, and the door beneath the mound that takes you home won’t reopen for a hundred years. When Lord Grantham caught you he imprisoned you and forced you into service for him. Am I right?”

“You’re fucking crackers, sir,” There was the laugh he’d wanted to hear. “You’re absolutely barking.”

“So I’ve guessed correctly.”

“His Lordship’s not so bad. It’s the dowager you’ve got to watch for.”

“Then she was the one who captured you, dragged you out of your burrow by your tail.”

“Got it in one,” Barrow humored him, and Edward heard the familiar snap-inhale of a new cigarette being lit. “You’ve found me out, and fair play to you...”

* * *

_He didn’t dream of the trenches or the shell-hole that night. _

_ For the first time in years, he dreamed of Bill. _

_ Bill, who was always grass-stained or mud-spattered, battered around the edges from a game of rugger, cauliflower ear from boxing (which made his mother weep and beat her breast to think of, Edward was sure). He seemed and ill-fit for the house of scholars, but then, so was Edward, daydreaming about thundering over the moors or rambling through the woods when he should be taking attentive notes… _

_ Or sometimes, ignoring the lecture entirely to stare at Bill…_

_ They stumbled home wine-drunk, stinking of cheap cigars, they were in Bill’s room and they were drinking whisky that made his head spin and Bill put a hand on his knee and slid it inside his thigh—_

_—and up—_

My God, what do you think you’re doing—!

You really think I don’t know. _Bill was cocky in all things_. You really think I don’t notice how you look at me. Watching you, watching me…

_ It wasn’t whisky making his head spin. _You have me all wrong, I don’t know what you’re talking about—

Is that true? _Bill was so close to him now._ If it’s true I’ll leave, I know you’ll be a sport about all this. Will you tell me to leave? Can you really push me away, after staring like that?

_Edward reached out but he didn’t push him away, he grabbed Bill’s collar and dragged him close—_

_ And his father was saying things are different now, I hope you take your duty much more seriously that you have previously, the way you conduct yourself is simply unacceptable its not just your own good name you’ll fritter away—_

_ And the priest was saying there is always forgiveness my son we are all born into sin and yet we are loved and the blood of Christ washes us clean again but of course those who have strayed must first come back to the flock the prodigal son is still loved by the Father—_

_ And the man from the army is telling him that they need leaders like him, a man who can keep his seat on the horse in the thick of the chase well-read well-bred a gentleman officer the pride of your county the pride of your country the cream of British manhood the army’s the thing for it it’s the fire that makes good steel gone is the brittleness gone is the frailty gone are all the flaws and impurities it’s the crucible that forges the swords of the realm you’ll do well in the army my lad—_

_ Bill was saying of course we had such terrific fun but you know it couldn’t be forever, you know we have to get on with our lives at some point and put aside fun and games and Edward was agreeing with him, yes of course all very reasonable and they shook hands but his heart was breaking and Bill said now then can’t have that I’ll write you once we’ve shipped out—_

_ But he never got a letter from Bill he got a letter from Bill’s mother saying that he’d died at Mons but here’s Bill now splattered with mud pale as death but his blue eyes blazing with fire—_

_ But then its dark and there’s the whistle of the mortar _INCOMING SHELL TAKE COVER_ Edward screams but his voice is a whisper and Bill is saying you’re always looking at me, you let your eye wander where it shouldn’t—_

* * *

“Are you well sir?” Barrow’s hand was on his forehead, without asking, and Edward pushed him off.

“I’m fine,” he said, more curtly than he meant. “I just didn’t sleep well.”

“The dream again?”

Edward wanted to scream. “A different dream.”

“Do you want to—?”

“_No_,” he said, then gentler: “No, thank you Sergeant. Tell me about you. What’s new in the barracks?”

“The barracks are same as ever, sir.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nurse Crawley sent you that book—the _Bullfinch’s_.”

“It was kind of her to do so,” Edward replied, mechanically, even though he’d flatly refused to hear anything from it.

“I know you’re not keen, but I—well, I picked it up. Hated to see it getting dust.”

Edward was intrigued. “And what did you think of it, Sergeant?”

“I liked it. I knew some of the stories, but not all of them—they make more sense with the mad bits explained to you.”

He smiled. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Nurse Crawley wouldn’t mind if you kept it, I imagine—”

“With your permission—” he knew well enough that Barrow was asking for no such thing—“I’ll just finish the King Arthur bits before giving it back.”

“It’s not fair that you two gang up on me.”

“Two heads are better than one,” Barrow said, serenely.

“We’ll see about that. What part did you like best?”

“I liked how they wanted to explain the world,” Barrow said. “It’s easy to laugh, because we know better, but they couldn’t be expected to know where wind comes from.” 

“Where _does_ wind come from, Sergeant?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Barrow groused, and Edward laughed. “Buggered if I know, sir.”

“Maybe it’s blown from a conch-shell.”

“Maybe it’s blown out your backside.”

“Charming, Sergeant. Charming, indeed. Looks like neither of us know, we’ve been outdone by the ancients.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Who’s to say? They didn’t get England right at all, if they thought it was all rainbows and frolicking in the north—but I suppose something horrible is always happening to the cup-bearers in the stories, so the Greeks knew the score on that one, at least.”

Edward laughed at that. “Something horrible, indeed. Risky business, pouring wine on Mount Olympus.”

“The whole world’s a minefield. You step out of line, or say something rude, and just like that you’ve been turned into something nasty.”

“The worst crimes are pride and insolence. You wouldn’t last a day.” 

“No sir, I certainly wouldn’t.”

“The gods can’t abide the hubris of us lesser beings, creatures of ash and clay who think they deserve the heavens.”

“Them upstairs don’t like it when those downstairs get above their station,” Barrow said, sagely. “Tossing thunderbolts to keep everyone on their toes, laughing when they hit the deck. Guzzling wine. Gods and toffs and anyone else, they see a nose in the air and they make it their sole purpose in life to smack it back in the dirt. Thousand years, same as it ever was.”

“It does seem ghastly, when you put it that way.” Edward sat back against his chair, deep in thought. “Gods or toffs—a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea.”

“You said it, sir, not me.”

“It’s a dreary interpretation,” Edward remarked. “Either the gods turn you into a monster or the act of living does.”

“I wouldn’t say that. There’s some that make it out alright,” Barrow said, unusually optimistic. “Some make it out still decent. And it’s not right, that they’ll make a monster out of a person for one slip-up.”

“You don’t think any of the punishments are deserved, then?”

“Some, maybe. Who’s to say? They don’t ask my input, as I’m not a god.” 

“I should hope not. You’d have a free hand with the thunderbolts and tight fist with the wine.” He paused, the dream still fresh in his mind. “Sergeant?”

“Yes sir?”

“You’ve seen a great many injuries.”

“Indeed I have. More than I cared too, sir.”

“Do you think…” Edward trailed off, feeling foolish. And yet— “Are there ever--- have you ever looked at anyone and thought there was something just about it that seemed appropriate? ‘That’s what you get, serves you right’, or something of that nature?”

“No sir,” Barrow’s voice was firm, his answer immediate. “Not once. Not ever.”

“You don’t believe in— ironic reversals of fortune?” 

“I don’t believe in a big man upstairs doling them out. And before you ask—no, I do not believe in fate, or luck, or that anyone gets what they deserve,” Barrow charged on, without hesitation, with a confidence Edward deeply envied: “Cause if that were the case, I would’ve been cursed backwards and forwards years ago, with a thunderbolt shoved up my—”

“It’s chaos, then?” Edward challenged, “No rhyme or reason. No all-knowing clockmaker winding the gears. Just a universe of seething madness, sucking emptiness.”

“Yes sir,” Barrow said, confidently. “That’s when I’m in my element.”

Edward laughed aloud. “Your element?”

“No one watching the mountain, sir. It’s any man’s game, climbing to the top.”

“If only that were so,” Edward said, thoughtfully. 

* * *

Something about Barrow awakened the childish parts of him, the child who should have been put away a long time ago. Perhaps it was how selfish and helpless he’d been in their first meeting. Perhaps it was the difficulty of re-discovering the world, taking his first steps long after he’d thought he’d learned to walk. Perhaps it was that Barrow had his own moments of childlike frailty, cruel and self-centered and obnoxious—

—not to him, of course. Never to him.

But he was a grown man, not a child reading stories in the shade of the orchard, not a schoolboy too clever by half, drunk on sunlight and fast in the clutches of ecstatic vice. He had been stripped of his command, stripped of his birthright, but his obligations to both remained.

“I’ve had a letter,” Barrow said, but his voice was subdued. Whatever came in the post was grim tidings, indeed.

“Oh?”

“From the War Office,” Barrow said, softly. “You—you asked me. For news about your platoon.”

Edward nearly forgot to breathe. Here it was. The damning proof of his foolishness. “They _are_ dead.”

“They gave me a casualty list, from that day,” Barrow said. “Would you—like to me to read it?”

“Yes—yes, please, I must know.”

Barrow cleared his throat, as if stalling for time. “It’s quite a long letter, sir. I can give you the numbers.”

“Their names—I should hear their names.”

“So first—first they list those killed in action—” he hesitated, then plunged in: “Harold Ackley, John Bennet, John Bracken, Trevor Dunlavy—”

Each name was like a slap, the memory of a face flashing in his mind’s eye—faces that were gone from this world, buried in the earth, rotting in the mud—never to be seen by anyone. He owed them his solemn remembrance, to face their death at his command—death that had come very nearly by his own hand. Some were only wounded, those that hadn’t died were invalided home—same as him, mutilated and living half-lives of their own…

They were grown men, with families of their own, masters of their own lives who had pledged fealty to a boy-king and paid a terrible price for their faith…

“It’s not everyone,” Barrow said, after a long pause. “Not like you thought.”

“Well over half, counting wounds,” Edward replied.

“But not all of them. It’s not—it’s not your fault. You followed orders, and if the others got called off and left you hanging—”

“I was reckless—”

“They said take risks—”

“I knew better,” Edward said. “I _knew_ better. I knew the only way we were going home was wrapped in a sheet. At least—” his mouth twitched upward, in an expression not quite a smile: “at least I got what I deserved. More than I deserved—I got exactly what I wanted. I’m home now, aren’t I?”

Barrow said nothing to that. He was quiet for a long time. Then:

“I want to tell you something,” Barrow said. He didn’t sound like himself at all—quiet, subdued. “But— I’m afraid you’ll will think less of me, if I do.”

Edward turned to him. “What do you mean, think less of you?”

He felt Barrow’s hand on his wrist, guiding his fingertips until they alighted on soft leather—

“Your other hand?” Edward asked.

“You can take it off, if you want,” Barrow said, softly. Edward could admit to being curious, and with some fumbling he found the bottom edges and tugged, gently, until the glove was free. Barrow didn’t shiver this time, when Edward brushed his fingertips over his mangled fingers—he wondered if the man had any sensation at all in his palm, twisted and thick with scar tissue.

“Where you at the Somme?” Barrow asked.

“Yes,” Edward replied. “I was promoted only a week in. I was the only subaltern left.”

“Then you know,” he said, subdued. “You know what it was like.”

“Hell on earth,” Edward said, softly.

“I had been—I had been in France a year and half, and it—there wasn’t any end in sight,” Thomas’ words came in fits and spurts, like he had to force them past his lips. “I didn’t—you said—one time you said what I did was noble. But I didn’t—I meant what I said, that I only was trying to outfox old Carson. If he’d sacked me I couldn’t have gotten another job, and if I went to the army—it _looked_ brave, but I thought I wouldn’t be—” he swallowed. “I didn’t think they’d have me up there. I didn’t know…I’d never seen—I saw mum, when she died, but I didn’t know that—when they were killed—the bodies—”

“It’s horrible,” Edward said. “It’s the most horrible thing that’s ever happened. Of course you were scared, every man is, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.”

“But not every man does what I did,” Barrow said. He sounded afraid—but not of the past—of this present moment.

“And what is that?” Edward felt a tinge of unease.

“We lost so many that day,” Barrow said. “I saw—he just dropped, in front of me, and his brains spilled out from under his helmet—and I knew, I knew if I stayed, I was going to die—”

“What did you do?” Edward asked, harshly.

“I waited until night—I waited, and I went to the parapet and I—I stuck my lighter, here, between my fingers, and I put my hand over the top…”

Edward felt numb. Barrow was babbling, the truth spilling out of him, puss from a lanced boil:

“I don’t know if the sniper knew what I was doing and he felt generous or if he missed my fingers but it only took a few seconds and I was _out_, I was free—”

_Bastard_, Edward seethed. _Sniveling, traitorous COWARD how dare you_—

“—and I wanted to come back and keep working it wasn’t like they didn’t have enough men to carry stretchers they can make prisoners do that so really—” he was miserable, trying to justify the indefensible.

“Do you regret it?” Edward demanded, cold and distant.

“No.” At least Barrow wasn’t lying to him. “I—I’ve felt guilty, sometimes. That I left the others behind. But—they should have done it too. If any of them had any sense they’d all do it—I didn’t—I didn’t want to _die_…”

Edward could have struck him. He could have wrapped his hands around the man’s neck. _You wretched little worm. They’re all dead, they had wives and children and families, they died heroes, and you ran away with your tail between your legs and they’re dead but you’re alive_—

But Barrow hadn’t gotten anyone killed. He hadn’t charged in with a suicide wish he’d forced onto the rest. He _knew_ he was a bastard.

Edward had the gall to pretend to be a hero still.

And this—good Lord, this was _Barrow_ he was talking about. He could understand. He could make himself understand. There had to be a way to make sense of this, to square the circle of his fearless rescuer and the craven act he’d taken—

“You’re angry with me,” Barrow’s voice was so painfully unsure.

“Yes,” Edward admitted. “I’m furious. I am also—I’m jealous of you, and your good fortune. I’m angry— it didn’t work out that way for me.” He took a long breath, trying to quiet the raging voice pounding at his brain. “You—were shell shocked. It’s not unheard of.” 

“No,” Barrow said. “I knew what I was doing.”

“You could have lost the hand,” Edward said, not trying to reassure Barrow as much as he was trying in vain to convince himself. “You could have bled out, or gone septic. A horrible way to die.”

“I wanted to go home,” was Barrow’s only answer. “I didn’t—none of its _helping_. They just move the same line back and forth three miles—it just went on and on—I wasn’t ready to die for a patch of mud…”

Edward stilled. He thought he’d lost the fervor of the OTC, the chest-beating fanaticism that had driven him forward with a pistol in hand and the whistle between his teeth—the grand cause, the great sacrifice—

How happy he was, hoping to die for those three miles of ravaged field in a faraway land—

Barrow was right. There weren’t even trenches left, at Bullecourt. Just ditches in the mud, land no one wanted but no one could have.

Barrow was _right_. Edward was just angry he didn’t stick his hand up and spare everyone the trouble. What good was he now, in this state? They were done with him, shuffling him around to where he’d be the least nuisance. Barrow could still work…in his own way, he could still fight—

And Barrow had taken up his cause—

“You fought for me,” Edward said, softly. “Against Clarkson. Against my own wishes.”

“Sir?”

“Did you do that—” he paused, “because you felt obligated? To make it right?”

“I don’t feel obligated to do anything,” Barrow answered, frankly. “I do my job right because— because I just do.”

“But you went so far—”

“Sir, I—” Barrow hesitated. “It’s forward of me to say—”

_ You just confessed to treason_. “Say it anyway.”

“When I saw you first…” he trailed off, then plunged forward: “when I saw you, I thought we were the same.”

“The same?”

“You beat the odds,” Barrow said. “The gas, and then transport, the fever—you made it out. You survived, and then—people think that they can use you up and cast you aside.” Edward thought that maybe Barrow meant ‘me’ as much as ‘you’, but he said nothing.

“You mean the army? Or my Father?” Edward asked, bitter.

“Any of them,” Barrow spoke with new fervor. “You and me—we’re not cogs and gears. They can’t just throw us out because we’re broken or—flawed. You’re not disposable. You’re a fighter—and I wanted you to keep fighting.”

“But—why me?”

“Because…” it took him a long time to formulate his answer. “it shouldn’t just be us shirkers and malingerers and rats that manage to escape. There should be some decent people who make it out as well.” Edward was shocked to hear a hitch in Barrow’s voice, a moment so unguarded that he thought for the first time he might be talking to the man without any walls between them—

“That is to say,” he said, quickly catching himself. “You shouldn’t beat yourself up, about what happened. You didn’t shirk your duty. You tried to do right by them. They would tell you the same thing. There’s not rhyme or reason to who lives and who dies so just—keep on going forward, sir.”

Edward nearly laughed, high and hysterical— “All of that—all those dramatics— so you could tell me to chin up?”

“Not in so many words, sir,” Barrow said, but Edward was glad to hear his good humor had returned.

* * *

Later, after the many days it took him to _truly_ stop being angry with Barrow, they trekked out to the stone wall. Edward took Barrow’s gloved hand in both of his and swore that he wasn’t upset anymore, that he’d keep the sergeant’s secret, that he would take what he’d heard with him to his grave.

“Now hold out your right hand,” Edward ordered, and held up his own—and spat in it.

“Sir—!” Barrow was flabbergasted. “How old are you, exactly?”

“Oh come on, there’s only one way to seal a deal. We’ve got to do it properly.”

“They teach you this at Oxford?” Barrow sounded mystified.

No one at Oxford had ever promised him anything as profoundly vital as two little boys by the creek catching frogs. “No one’s got anything worth swearing on at Oxford.”

Reluctantly, Barrow spat and shook.

* * *

Sometimes, Edward rested his hand on Barrow’s glove.

_I’m glad you didn’t die_, he thought, unbidden. _I’m so terribly, terribly glad_.

“Sergeant?” he said aloud.

“Sir?”

_Don’t you think its funny, that your injury brought you to me—or did my mine bring me to you? Did we see each other, on the Somme? Did we pass in the dark? Do I know your face, somewhere deep in my memory? Was the flickering flame in your trembling fingers a beacon, a tiny light in the vast howling void that said ‘come find me’—?_

_ When you put your hand up, when the bullet tore your flesh, when you got back and asked for home service instead of just going home—_

_ Was it because you knew that I needed you? _

_ Where you looking for me?_

_ I feel as thought I’ve spent my whole life looking for you..._

“Sir?”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Edward lied. “I’ve utterly forgotten what I meant to say."

* * *

Barrow was an awful tell-tale.

Nurse Crawley hand wrangled a few days leave to visit him, and Barrow was taking some time between shifts to chat and catch up with her—out of the eye of the Major. It wasn’t against the rules, to spend your off time with a patient, but it also wasn’t _explicitly_ allowed.

_I don’t know why they fuss, with the Nurse as our chaperone_, he thought to himself, amused.

His amused air quickly evaporated when she began to really lay into him over the braille.

“And how are your lessons getting on? You’ll want to be at it every day.” 

“Yes,” he said, annoyed. “Of course, I am.”

“That’s not what I hear—”

Barrow tried to stem the tide, but it was no use—"you _can_ read you know, or you’ll be able to again, and there’s children in this very country who can’t”—"not so many, Nurse Crawley”— “no, I’m not finished, you’ve been to the finest school in the world and it does you no good if you just give up, some of us would have liked to go to university you know but since we’re _girls_—"

“Sneak,” he muttered, after they had said their goodbyes. 

“Sir?” Barrow asked, confused.

“Do you tattle to Nurse Crawley in all your letters?” he asked, snidely.

“Only when I need reinforcements.” Barrow’s answer was very cool indeed.

_ Of course he’s cross with you, we’re not quarreling in the schoolyard over a game of marbles. You can’t just go calling the Sergeant a sneak and a tell-tale because everything’s an uphill slog these days. _

The next day, he was back at his lessons, properly chastised.

* * *

“So what do you do,” Edward asked, one day, “when you’re not single-handedly running this operation?”

Barrow was taking a quick break for cigarettes, grumbling that his promotion wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. “Sleep. Then I wake up and get back to the grindstone.”

“But for fun?” Edward protested.

“No time for fun, sir, there’s a war on.”

“Alright, then, cheeky beggar. Before the war.”

Barrow was taking his time with his cigarette. “Never had any time before the war, either.”

“Really?”

“You really have no idea how those big houses stay running do you?” Barrow sounded amused, at least, even as Edward grimaced.

“No—isn’t that terrible? I only lived in one.”

“All work and no play below stairs.”

“Frightful,” was all Edward could say in response. “I suppose it explains a bit.”

“A bit of what?”

“No-nonsense Sergeant Barrow,” Edward said. “_If you so much as glance at me crosswise, Private, I’ll string you up with your own guts_.” He did a passable imitation of Barrow’s ferocious nasal drawl, the one when he was being really nasty. 

“I hope that’s not supposed to be me, sir.”

“If the shoe fits,” Edward answered, serenely. 

Barrow laughed. “Bloody awful. You’d get booed off the stage.”

“I’d be more of a circus act, surely, in a traveling fair—”

“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that,” he was surprised to here Barrow sound so glum, his voice gone soft and sincere.

“You, of all people, should enjoy a cruel joke.” Edward chided him.

“Sir—”

“Tell me if you’ve got a hobby, or I will invent one for you.”

“As much as I enjoy your inventions—” Barrow left his thought dangling, teasing. “I do—like to read.”

“Dull!”

“Well, then you should try more of it,” he said, meaningfully.

“Always that. I’m sick to death of books, braille or otherwise. Anything else?”

Barrow hesitated. “Some sport. I’ve got a good throwing arm.”

“Really?” Edward didn’t have to feign excitement. “What do you play?”

“Cricket,” Barrow was practically mumbling around his cigarette.

“Really! Excellent! Are you on a team?”

“Not now. Picked up a little in school, then played for the House team at Downton.”

“The House team?”

“It’s ah—” Barrow sounded rather bashful. “Lord Grantham—and his father, back in the day— they’re all just mad about cricket. Every year they have a match against the lads in the village. All the male staff get pressed into service for the house.”

“Extraordinary. Brilliant. Absolutely mad. What a tyrant! Conscripting his manservants to the cricket team! Like a Roman emperor having his slaves fight a bear.”

“Am I the slave or the bear, sir?”

“You’re a real British lion, obviously. And I’m the ass, just like in the papers.”

“Don’t say that—besides, I thought I was the prince of foxes.”

“So you are!” Edward laughed. “Trapped in the castle in the dales—but be serious: were you _really_ press-ganged to play cricket for the earl’s amusement?”

“Well, he plays too,” Barrow sounded thoughtful. “More like an overgrown schoolboy who’s got no mates, holding court with his toys. Old Clarkson’s head of the village team, and they thrash the house every time.”

“Dreadful. Are you any good?”

“Not if Clarkson can trounce us.”

“Not them, you. Are _you_ any good?”

Barrow hesitated. “If I said yes, you wouldn’t believe me.”

Edward was puzzled. “Why not? You’re good at everything else you do. I shouldn’t be surprised to learn you’re a crack hand at bat as well.”

Barrow didn’t speak for a long moment. “You’re a flatterer, sir,” he said, but there wasn’t any bite in his voice.

It sounded quite warm.

* * *

Mother came to visit. She had a lot of nerve, after that letter that she sent.

Edward told her as much.

“You mustn’t be angry,” she said, her voice wavering dangerously. “It’s in your best interest—”

“It’s in _your_ best interest,” he snapped. “How lucky for you, to have an heir and a spare.”

“You need _rest_, you mustn’t tire yourself out thinking of the future—”

“What future is that? You made it clear I don’t have one, as far as you’re concerned—”

* * *

He felt rather badly, after she left. They hadn’t always gotten along, and she drove him up the wall more often than not, but she was his _mother_. He was wretched and cruel, to make her cry.

_Don’t let them walk all over you_…

“Is everything alright, sir?” Barrow asked. Edward didn’t answer right away, and he felt a familiar callused hand on his wrist.

“Sir?” he asked again. Edward turned to his voice.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level. “I’m so very glad you’re here.”

* * *

Another visit from Nurse Crawley, which was always a treat. But today she seemed rather preoccupied, distant and distracted.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

“Oh—oh, no, nothing’s wrong,” she said, quickly. “It’s only…” she trailed off. “I don’t to bother you with it.”

“You know all my troubles,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I’d be a terrible friend if I didn’t reciprocate.”

She was quiet for a long moment. “It’s just—the war will be over soon,” she said, quietly. “And I’ll have some decisions to make.”

“Decisions?” Edward asked. “Like what?”

“Well,” she started, slowly, “I won’t have a job anymore—I don’t imagine Clarkson will be keeping on a full staff of nurses, once there’s no more injuries from the fighting. But I don’t—I can’t just go back to my old life.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Edward asked, successfully keeping the bitterness out of his voice.

“Won’t,” she said, firmly. “I won’t spend my life sitting around, waiting to be brought down for breakfast and taken up for dinner with nothing in between…”

_Sounds as though we’ve swapped places_. That’s not true—he knew it wasn’t true. There were new things, new directions for his life.

“So what will you do?” he asked.

“I’ve put some thought into it,” she demurred. “But no decisions yet. What about you? Once you and Thomas are discharged?”

That Barrow let Nurse Crawley call him by his name was baffling as it was sweet. He let her get away with anything. It really—

Hang on. Barrow, discharged?

“I hadn’t thought of it,” Edward said, slowly. “I’ve spent so much time adjusting to the present, I—I hadn’t thought about it at all.”

What would he do? What was he supposed to do?

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” that was Barrow, easy and sure. “They’ve been saying the war would be over soon since it first started. They’ve been wrong every other year, I don’t expect them to be right now.”

“But the Americans—” Sybil protested.

“A bunch of cowboys and gangsters against the Hun? I’ll believe it when I see it,” Barrow jeered—just a hair too self-assured.

“But have you made any plans?” Edward asked. His stomach was twisted up in knots, and he didn’t know why.

“Not a one,” Barrow assured him. “I’ve got too much on my plate getting through the day to think about anything else.”

_Good_, Edward thought, even though it was beneath him.

* * *

People were under the strange impression that he wasn’t always listening. He wouldn’t have considered it himself, Before, but it seemed so obvious now. Admittedly, he did his part to preserve that belief, by pretending to be deeply absorbed in hunting for sloes in the hedgerow while Nurse Crawley and Barrow ‘cleaned up the picnic things’—

\--which meant, in actuality, bickering about something Edward couldn’t quite make out.

“Have you really not told him?” she scolded, keeping her voice low. “About your—?”

“Of course I haven’t,” Barrow said, quickly. “Why would I?”

“Thomas,” she said, her voice sad. “Because—you have to!”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything, _your ladyship_.”

“Stop that, don’t be a prat. You have to make these things known. If you keep quiet you’ll end up miserable.”

“Oh, because you know so much about it—”

“I do, in fact. Maybe not—your _situation_, particularly, but I know.”

Barrow was quiet for a long moment. “What am I supposed to tell him?” he said, bitterly. “He’s not—the same.”

“Do you know that for certain?”

“If it were that easy—”

“So you don’t. You don’t know. It could work out.”

“It never does—not for me,” Barrow said, and Edward nearly dropped a handful of sloes at the grief in his voice.

“It can’t go on like this,” Nurse Crawley said, gently. “It’s not fair to you. He should know, and then whatever happens, happens.”

“I couldn’t take it,” Barrow said, softly, “if I said something and it all went wrong.”

“Be brave, Sergeant,” Nurse Crawley said, gently. “It’s always a gamble when it comes to these sorts of things.”

“Some of us have more to lose,” Barrow bit back, nastily.

“Yes, well—Edward! Look at that! My word, Mrs. Patmore will be thrilled to have those—they’ll have sloe gin for Christmas and a thick head on Boxing Day…”

* * *

That night, Edward couldn’t sleep. He tossed and he turned, back and forth.

Barrow was keeping something from him.

It wasn’t the first time.

_How? Why are you different? _

The more he learned about the man, the less he knew. And if the war ended, and it split them up—

He might be a mystery forever.

The thought disturbed him, and he was still awake when the orderlies changed shifts at dawn.

* * *

It occurred to him that Barrow knew almost everything there was to know about him—his home, his childhood, his schooling—he even suspected Barrow could draw up a rough family tree, if pressed. This was to say nothing of all Edward had told him of his own experience of the war, from the OTC to the untimely end of his career—

But it was more than that. Barrow had seen the very worst of him, his most appalling lows, disgraceful behavior—Barrow had very literally stitched him back together when he’d tried to quit this life altogether.

For God’s sake, Barrow had even bathed him—a thought that made him blush to remember.

And yet, what could he say of the man? Tall, black hair, blue eyes. Likes sport, good at cricket. Former footman (_first footman_, he thought he heard Barrow’s snide correction) turned RAMC Sergeant, by way of a lucky-but-not-the-way-everyone-thinks bullet wound. He knew the man to be a series of contradictions—cruel but kind, rude but gallant, craven but fearless, cunning but brash, selfish but so selflessly giving of himself…

And somehow, different…

Today, at least, he could add new information to his shortlist. Barrow was chatty today, talking excitedly about a grandfather clock that had been rotated out of storage and into the atrium of Farley Hall.

“It’s fantastic and bloody ancient, I’d like to crack it open and get a look inside…”

“What for?”

“See the handiwork, sir. The craft that went into making it.”

“Really? Is there that much to know about clocks?” he asked. “I couldn’t tell you the first thing.”

“They sit on the mantel and tell time, sir. You can start there.”

“Touché. But be serious, why _do_ you know so much?”

“My dad was a clockmaker,” Barrow said, easily, almost a little too lightly. “Learned the trade at his knee—some of it, anyway.”

“I didn’t know that,” Barrow almost never talked about his family—perhaps offhandedly mentioned that his mother was dead, but that was it.

“It sounds like you really enjoyed the work,” Edward probed.

“Yeah,” Barrow’s voice was suddenly harsh. “’Spose I did.”

“But you didn’t…you went into service,” he started, slowly. “You didn’t want the shop?”

Barrow was silent for a long moment. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe—I would have. Maybe I did, but—who knows what they want at that age? I was barely sixteen when—” Barrow stopped short, and was silent again

“You were sixteen when…he lost the shop?” Edward guessed.

Thomas laughed—harsh, barking, not at all humorous. “The shop’s still there, as far as I know, and dad’s still in it.”

“As far as you know.”

“Could be he died, I suppose, or went bust—haven’t bothered to find out.”

“Why not?” Edward asked, as gently as he could. Barrow let out a short breath—irritated, uncomfortable.

“We didn’t get on,” he said, shortly. “I was sixteen when he finally threw me out.”

_Threw him out?!_ He must have failed to school his expression, because Barrow went on, irritated:

“It’s not important, let’s talk about something else—”

“Sergeant—” Edward fumbled, but he found Barrow’s upper arm, and put a hand on his shoulder. “I—I’m sorry. I had no idea…”

“It was a long time ago—almost ten years on. I don’t really think of it much—” a lie if Edward ever heard one “—and neither should you.” 

What could he say? All sorts of awful and trite little clichés popped into his head, the kinds of vapid things people say in the face of an unpleasant revelation, but none of them measured up to the horror and anger he felt on Barrow’s behalf.

“We can talk about something else, if you like—” Barrow said, pointedly, but Edward ignored him---

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I—I just cannot fathom—how _could_ he? You’re so clever and—”

“Not so clever,” Barrow said, with dark humor. “Never clever enough to shut my mouth and stay out of trouble. He used—he used to give me a pop in the gob, when I was being smart with him, and I never did learn not to. How clever is that, I ask you?”

“He was wrong to,” Edward said, stupidly. “He was—quite wrong to.”

“He’d knock me down sometimes, but I got too big for that,” Barrow seemed lost in his reminiscence. “I’m taller than him. So when he wanted me out, and he couldn’t push me around— you’d laugh, but he kept a rifle to pick off the odd pigeon, it was only birdshot but he leveled it on me—”

“My God—!”

“—I slammed the door in his face, even though I was the one getting the boot, and I heard the shot hit the back of the door—sir?”

Edward felt near tears. “You must think I’m a colossal twit,” he said, quietly. “You must think I’m the biggest prat in the world.”

“Well, first of all, I don’t,” Barrow sounded irritated, “and secondly, I don’t dunno what I said that’s _offended_—”

“Me? I’m not—”

“Or if you think I’m having you on—"

“No! No! It isn’t that—” Edward rubbed is forehead with the heel of his hand. “I just—I can’t believe you’ve sat there and listened to my whine about—about my family and my _horse _and other foolish things. When you—when you went through _that_.”

“I’d rather you talked about the things that upset you, sir,” Barrow replied. “I wouldn’t have you hold back on my account.”

“Hold back— Barrow— what you just told me— I had no idea—”

“Stop,” Barrow seemed almost embarrassed. “I’m not trying to lay it on thick, that’s just how it was—”

“It’s barbaric,” Edward said, fiercely. “It’s monstrous, that he would treat you that way. What a beast.” Edward had fought with his father, but their squabbles and bickering seemed so petty compared to _that_.

Of course, Father didn’t want him minding the shop either, did he? But he’d only sent a letter…

“If he’s a beast, I don’t know what that makes me,” Barrow said. He sounded like he was trying for humor, and failing.

“You are the bravest man alive,” Edward said, severely. “Don’t scoff—I mean it. You are worth a thousand of him. Ten thousand!”

“You don’t know why he threw me out,” Barrow said, distantly. “The straw that broke the camel’s back—”

“I don’t need to. It doesn’t matter what it was, he was wrong. He was wrong to do it! You could never deserve that, never!”

“It’s kind of you to say so,” Barrow murmured.

“It’s true. You are kind, and brave, and you have the patience of a saint to sit here and listen to me bellyache about my silly horse when—”

“I don’t think it’s silly,” Barrow said, quietly. “I don’t— think its silly, to feel cheated from what’s yours, just because…” he trailed off. “Nevermind.”

“Because what?”

“Because they don’t understand you,” Barrow blurted out. “When you’re—different, and they assume the worst and never—listen or see reason or—they think they know everything, one look and that’s all you are to them. They don’t understand what you can _do_.”

_What I can do_. A year ago, he would have said nothing, nothing ever again. Now he had a brand-new world at his fingertips, small but widening every day.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” Edward said, quietly. “As a man and as a friend. I don’t deserve you.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I was thinking,” Barrow muttered.

“What are you thinking? Let me be the judge.”

Barrow was silent, and Edward thought he would refuse to answer at all. Then:

“That your horse has a fucking stupid name, sir.”

“Oh, not this again—” Edward huffed, playing along.

But he knew that Barrow was lying.

* * *

Barrow was busy again—there was another great shake-up of men being discharged and new patients coming in, which always meant mountains of paperwork that put him in an especially foul mood. Edward, for his part, had come to appreciate the ebb and flow of Farley Hall’s population—there were a few cases like him, who needed especially prolonged rehabilitation, but others graduated more quickly and brought in plenty of new fellows to keep things interesting.

There was a method to it—Corporal Bernard would appear at his bedside, telling him “Now Lieutenant, you’ve a new neighbor today, this is Captain Moorehouse…”

“Good morning, sir,” Edward would greet him, pleasantly. “Now, what’s wrong with you, then?”

Most were glad to break the ice so easily—the thing he was most tired of was people dancing around his handicap.

“It’s my leg, Lieutenant,” the Captain said, cheerfully. “I got back alright, but they seem to have left the damn thing in France!”

“And the rest of your luggage made it just fine—isn’t that always the way?”

He was glad for the easy camaraderie—it made him feel less like a toddler, clinging to Barrow’s hand all the time.

And speaking of Barrow…

“That Sergeant’s a nasty piece of work, isn’t he?” Moorehouse was saying. Edward didn’t even have time to protest before the others cut him off—

“Oh, you mustn’t—”

“You’re in for now, Captain—”

“You can’t say that in front of Courtenay, sir, he thinks Sergeant Barrow hung the moon,” Lieutenant Bowden was explaining.

“Really?” Moorehouse sounded astonished. “Sergeant Sour over there?”

“He’s an acquired taste, I suppose,” Edward demurred, “but the stoutest man there ever was, when it comes to it.”

“Of course you’re fond,” Bowden teased, “when he dotes on you.”

“He does no such thing,” Edward replied, “you should hear him when he thinks I’m slacking…”

“I have a hard time believing it, seeing as Barrow thinks the sun shines out your—”

“Post for you, sirs,” Corporal Bernard interrupted, mercifully. “Sorry, Lieutenant Courtenay, nothing for you this time—Captain Moorehouse—”

Edward waited, impatiently, for the rest of them to read their letters. He leaned over to his bedside table, searching for his braille book, when—

“Good Lord,” Moorehouse said, softly, “Evans is still alive.”

“Fantastic news,” Edward said, genially. “Who’s that?”

“My batman. I thought him a goner for certain, when they wouldn’t tell me where he was—he’s back on his feet and back to the front.”

“Poor devil. Not everyone’s as lucky as us.”

“If he comes out the other end, he’ll have a job waiting for him,” Moorehouse said.

“A job?” Edward asked.

“Yes, a job—I couldn’t do without him for the past three years, I certainly couldn’t do without him now…”

_Couldn’t do without him_. The words resonated in him, started the gears in his head grinding away.

“That’s a fine thing, sir,” Bowden was saying. “A fine thing to think of.”

“Yes,” Edward agreed. “Marvelous idea…”

* * *

“They’re quite serious, you know, about the war ending,” Edward said, carefully.

Barrow scoffed. “They’ve got some nerve to start that up again. Fool me once, shame on you, but fool me four years in a row…”

“Everyone’s saying it.”

“I won’t hold my breath, sir.”

“But…” Edward weighed his words carefully. “Are you thinking about life after the war? What you’ll do, where you’ll go, and such?”

“No,” Barrow said, just a hair too quickly. “It’s too early. The best plans of mice and men. I can’t—” he stopped short, collecting himself. “I couldn’t build something up, only to have it knocked out from under me.”

“What would you build?” Edward pressed. “Would you stay in the army?”

“I’d stay working here, if I could—but then, what use is there for me when there’s not a war on? The toffs will want their house back soon enough.”

“Yes, I’m sure they will.” Edward leaned back against the stone wall, listening to the wind rustle the leaves. It would be autumn soon, and everything would go dry and barren—life would leave this place behind.

“Ready to go in, sir?” 

“No—I’m glad I’ve got you alone, actually. There was something I wanted to ask you.”

“Yes, sir?” Barrow seemed ill at ease.

“I have been thinking—about what we talked about. About life after the war, moving on, getting used to a new way of doing things. And—well. Things aren’t quite as bleak as I thought they might be, at first. But there are some things that I will—need help with, no matter what. Or things that I want a second set of eyes on—and for that, I need someone I can trust. And the thing of it is, Sergeant, I trust you,” Edward turned to where Barrow was sitting, and thought he heard the man’s breath catch in his throat.

“I trust you a great deal.”

“Sir—”

“I know you talked about—not liking your old job. But if there are things you didn’t like particularly, we could shake it up—I could make it worth your while—”

“Sir, please—”

“No, let me finish. I don’t intend to be an invalid for the rest of my life. When I am sufficiently independent, and you find yourself tired of working as a valet—or—whatever we call it— then you’ll find that I’m not ungenerous— I’ll send you on your way with what you deserve. But until then—” he didn’t want to beg. And yet, here he was: “It’s only—we make a good team, don’t we?”

Barrow didn’t answer. Edward’s heart sank, but he took a long breath.

_Buck up, old boy. It’s not the worst setback you’ve encountered_.

But he felt gutted all the same.

“I understand,” Edward started, with a stiff upper lip he didn’t feel one bit. “You don’t want to work in service anymore, that’s perfectly—”

“I—I want to go with you,” Barrow blurted out. To Edward’s shock and concern, he sounded near tears. “Sir I—I want that more than anything. But—"

“But? But what?”

“But,” Barrow swallowed hard. Edward had never heard him sound like this before—small and almost pained:

“There’s something you should know about me. I can’t—I can’t, in good conscious, take the job unless you know all of it.”

“All of it? What is there to know?”

“Do you remember—when I told you I was different?”

Edward did— Barrow had never answered that question to his satisfaction, even after teasing and guessing and wheedling— but after all they had shared, he let it slide. The man was a dark horse in many ways, and Edward didn’t begrudge him a last few secrets—his actions proved he was trusty and true.

“Are you going to tell me _why_ at last?” Edward asked, playfully, hoping to put the man at ease—but Barrow just seemed devastated.

“You’ll want to be rid of me,” he replied, in a near whisper.

“I could never,” Edward retorted. “I _would_ never! What you’ve done for me— what is it? Have you committed some crime?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Barrow answered, faintly. Edward’s eyebrows shot up.

“Barrow, nothing could be worse than what I’m imagining. Please—just say it—”

“I’m not—” Barrow hesitated, before plunging forward: “I’m not a—a proper man. A lady’s man.”

Edward’s mind raced. From—an injury? From birth? But why would he care?

“How do you mean?”

“Please. Don’t make me spell it out,” Barrow pleaded. “I’m not _normal_. It’s never been—women. It’s only men.”

Only men—

Oh. _Oh_. Edward felt his eyes go wide, his mouth open.

“Oh,” he said, weakly.

“Say something. Say anything.”

“I don’t…that isn’t…insurmountable. I wouldn’t throw you out for that.” He said, automatically. _Only_ men. Well, Edward was hardly a hypocrite. “A valet shouldn’t be married anyways, so really it shouldn’t come up—” Edward stopped short. Barrow laughed—a harsh, hysterical laugh.

“But I can’t—it’s not other men anymore. It’s you. Don’t you understand? It’s _only_ you. I’m in _love_ with you.”

Edward’s thought were slow, like dripping molasses. Everything went foggy. His mouth was dry. Time seemed to flow strangely, the way it did after the high piercing shriek of the whistle and the dreaded scramble over the top—

“With…_me_?” he managed. “But—that can’t be right…”

“How can it not be _right_?” Barrow was in tears now. “Can’t you feel it? All that there is between us?” Barrows hands were on his face, tender and reverent, but Edward pulled away from the touch, startled.

“I don’t mean—I just—I don’t know what to say,” he stammered. He was reeling. Of course Barrow had shown him loyalty that went well beyond what was expected of him—devotion, gentleness, patience, kindness—but that was what happened between men in a war, wasn’t? The bonds were stronger than anything, naturally, but it was all very _normal_. The friendship they had was the greatest expression of camaraderie, but that was all it was. All it _could_ be. The kisses and the horseplay—that was all behind him now. They weren’t boys, they were grown men.

“Of course, you’ve shown me great kindness, and I so very much appreciate—”

Barrow laughed, that same hysterical laugh that was closer to a cry of anguish. “I don’t—I couldn’t stand it, to be so close to you and never—it would kill me. It’s killing me now. I couldn’t live in your house, I couldn’t—be around you if I couldn’t _be_ with you.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Edward repeatedly, dumbly.

“It shocks you,” Barrow’s voice was still tearful, but now it had a hard edge. “You’re disgusted by me.”

“No! No—!”

“You’re going to tell them—”

“I wouldn’t,” Edward assured him, numbly, “I promise, I wouldn’t, I’ll keep your confidence—I would never—I wouldn’t betray such faithful service—”

“Is that what we are? Is that what I am to you? Your _servant_?”

“No!” Edward reached for him, but Barrow eluded his grasp. “We’re _friends_! Such dear, dear friends—”

“This was a mistake,” Barrow sounded miserable, wretched, and Edward’s heart broke for him. “I shouldn’t have said anything—it should never have gone so far—I’m a fool—”

“Please—”

“When I think of how long—”

“Barrow, don’t—let’s talk about this like sensible people—"

“We should go,” he Barrow cut him off, suddenly sure and authoritative. “We should go back inside.”

“Wait, just give me a chance to—”

“Up on your feet, Lieutenant, we wouldn’t want you to miss dinner.”

“Barrow—”

Edward pleaded, but Barrow didn’t say a word to him, and for the sake of the man’s dignity he was forced to stay silent as they entered the hall. He kept his hand on the other man’s arm, but Barrow was stiff and unyielding.

His sleeve was damp where he’d wiped his tears.

* * *

It was Corporal Bernard who appeared to help him dress the next morning—Edward refused his help, both out of a frustrated dream for independence and a kind of backwards loyalty to Barrow. He only gave up after struggling fruitlessly with his tie, and let the Corporal patiently talk him through the process again.

Edward wanted to scream. He wanted to throw a fit. Ideally, he would like to throw things—chairs, beds, the lot of it. But he sat obediently as another man knotted his tie.

Barrow stayed away for the rest of the day—when he was in the ward, he was silent and spoke only if spoken to, and sometimes not even then. The other chaps seemed to sense the tension between the two of them, or at least Edward’s concern:

“Chin up, old boy, it can’t be that bad,” Captain Moorehouse offered, encouraging. Barrow mumbled an unenthusiastic “right away, sir,” before leaving, his boots tapping a mournful tattoo against the floor.

“Barrow’s got the longest face you’ve ever seen,” Moorehouse told Edward. “Had a spot of bad news, I imagine.”

“There’s enough to go around,” Edward muttered.

“Not you too,” Moorehouse replied, crossly. “Just give it some time, he’ll be right as rain and you can go on plotting and joking like a bunch of schoolboys soon enough.”

* * *

But the next day came and went, and still Edward couldn’t get a moment with Barrow to save his life. He wondered why he bothered—what should he care, when the man had abandoned him after a year and a half of unwavering service? What did he expect, after poleaxing him with a mad confession like that? How could he declare undying love and then just drop him flat?

_You didn’t reciprocate. It broke his heart. _

Edward snorted at the thought. That he could think of himself as a heartbreaker in his current state was the height of vanity.

Did the Barrow think he would judge him? It _had_ been shocking to hear the man proclaim himself a—a man certain…inclinations. Barrow was right about that, at least. But once the dust settled—well. It was what it was. Edward had his own history with the Grecian vice, as well and drinking and gambling and all the other things boys got up to in their first taste of freedom. He’d had Bill, but he really shouldn’t have, and then he _didn’t_, and that’s all there was to it.

That Barrow never put that particular impulse aside—_couldn’t_ put it aside—

Well, it wasn’t _his_ fault.

Without Barrow to keep him occupied, his thoughts drifted back to those days—to the things he’d put away, left behind as was expected of him. Gently-born children of wealth, their touches were silky-soft, none of their hands were callused, or puckered with scars—what did they know of work or war? Their castles in the air rested on the backs of ten thousand faceless bodies, every man a Countess of Bathory, silk-skinned by rite of blood. What they’d had was beautiful, in its own way, but it wasn’t _real_, it wasn’t warm and solid the way Barrow—

_Stop_, he told himself. _Stop, stop—_

But he couldn’t.

He was noticing the absence of Barrow’s hands and Barrow’s touch with greater and greater urgency. But—of course he was. The man had been at his side since he’d first gotten back from France. Barrow had been there when he realized the entirety of what had happened to him, that his eyes weren’t ever going to get better, that his vision would never return. Barrow had been standing at his side when his whole world turned upside-down—

And now here he was, upside-down again, and Barrow was to blame…

_He’s so selfish_, Edward thought, running his fingers over the words in his braille workbook and not absorbing a single one. What was he supposed to do now? He would need _someone_, after the war, after everything had been disbanded. Who was he supposed to take on? Who could he find who understood him, understood the black moods and melancholy, who wouldn’t be shocked and appalled at the scars on his wrists—

Where would he go? What would he do? Why couldn’t Barrow just take back what he’d said, pretend it never happened, and everything could be the way it was between them—

“Lieutenant?”

He started. He hadn’t noticed the corporal approaching him. “What?” he snapped.

“There’s a telephone call for you, sir.”

Of course there was. He’d been so out of sorts that he’d forgotten this was his allotted time. “Thank you, Corporal,” he said, briskly. “Would you assist me?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The army had paid for Farley Hall to have its own dedicated phone line, although the window of time during which each man may receive and make calls was strictly regimented. The telephone was installed in a glorified linen closet, which ensured a certain amount of privacy during the conversations. Edward was glad of the privacy that day, because naturally it was Mother on the line. He pulled a face.

“Edward, it’s Mummy. I was afraid I wasn’t going to get a hold of you, and its so dreadfully urgent—”

“I’m here now,” he said, cutting her short.

“You see, the war will be over soon, and we’re making arrangements for you to come back home—”

“That seems premature,” he frowned. “Nothing’s official yet.”

“You know how these things are,” she said, dismissively. “Anyways, when you come home—”

“I haven’t _agreed_ to move back home,” he cut her off.

“But you must! Oh, darling boy, wherever would you go? Do be sensible.”

Edward’s grip on the receiver tightened. “Mother—”

“As I was saying, we’re going to hire staff and we wanted—”

“What do you mean, hire staff? For me?”

“Well, we thought a nurse—”

“I don’t need a _nurse_!”

“Of course you do, don’t be cross with me—there will be a day nurse and a night nurse and your father thought we ought to make sure you didn’t have any kind of preference—”

“I have no preference because I don’t want anything of the sort. I don’t need _minders_, I’m not a _child_—”

“Of course you aren’t, but be _reasonable_, dear. How will you get around? Do you want one of us to be on call—?”

That was the absolute _last_ thing he wanted. “I can get around. I can manage. Besides, I’ve already made a decision. I’ve hired a valet.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think better of them.

“A valet? We could look into it, but you know that’s not enough—”

“You’re not listening. It’s already done.”

“It’s not that fellow from the hospital that you’re so fond of, is it?” she asked, clear skepticism in her voice. “Are you sure that’s an entirely sensible choice? We could find you someone much more suitable, experienced—someone who actually knows his place, if I may be frank—”

In an instant, Edward could see the rest of his life playing out like a film—shuffled around from room to room by a team of dull, disinterested nurses, being prodded out of bed and dressed like a doll by some ancient crony of Mother’s, all of them without a spark of warmth for _him_—

Shooed away out of sight so he didn’t embarrass Jack’s important new friends—

Dull and dusty and forgotten, a relic of the war, a curiosity for children to puzzle over—

The dam broke and he realized that the little dreams he’d been saving up, the little picture he’d been building in his mind of a life with Barrow were swept away—he only saw it now, all the half-formed notions and scribblings of a real life together as partners and equals at last lost to the floodwaters, drowned, smothered in its crib—

Here was the life he couldn’t see when he’d cut his wrists, it was there all along and now it was snatched away again, plunging him back in the dark—

A lifetime without feeling Barrow’s comforting hand on his shoulder, or his snide commentary in his ear, or hearing him laugh—

All of it, the possibilities and promises gone, and he would never know what intimacy Barrow craved so badly he would give it all up just to confess the terrible burden of his love—

The realization struck Edward like a bolt of lightning, illuminating, burning, shocking, thrilling—_I’m the same kind of man as Barrow_.

Then, the booming thunderclap, the second realization so strong it could have rattled the windows:

_ I am in love with Thomas Barrow_.

The telephone nearly fell from his numb fingers. His mother was droning in his ear, but he couldn’t understand a word she was saying.

“Mother, something’s happened. I have to go,” he said, in a daze, and ended the call with a gentle click. He sat, shell-shocked, unable to stand, hardly able to think.

The phone rang again, yowling like a cat that had its tail trodden on. Corporal Bernhard spoke, and it made Edward jump.

“Sir?”

“Don’t answer that,” Edward said, quickly. “Just let it ring. I’m finished here.” He stood, groping for his stick. “Where is Sergeant Barrow?”

“Sergeant Barrow, sir?” the confusion in his voice was evident.

“It’s imperative that I speak to him,” Edward tried to keep his voice level. “Urgently. Immediately.”

“I’m not sure—”

“When he’s free, that is,” Edward added, hastily. “When his shift ends. Tell him, please—I just want a word.”

* * *

Edward felt like he’d swallowed a bucket of live eels. His stomach twisted and nodded, but he sat quietly at mess and picked at his food, even though the nurses scolded him. He readied himself for bed that evening, with still no sign of Barrow, and he tossed and turned all night, consumed by anxieties. He’d seen a man, mortally wounded but still alive, lying in the mud, swarmed by rats—

Edward thought he understood the feeling.

It wasn’t until mid-morning the next day that he felt a touch at his elbow.

“You wanted to speak to me?” Barrow’s voice was hoarse. Edward’s heart leapt in his throat.

“I want to take a walk,” he said, then lower: “somewhere private. As far away as we can get.”

Barrow seemed uneasy, but he complied. Edward leaned on him more than was necessary as they descended the steps down to the gravel drive, but Barrow pulled away from the touch once they hit solid ground.

“Here? Is it here?” he asked, when they finally came to a stop.

“Yessir,” Barrow replied, nervously.

“Can we sit?”

“On the ground?”

“I assume you didn’t bring chairs,” Edward said, a little more sharply than he meant. Barrow didn’t reply, only offering a steadying arm as Edward lowered himself into a dense patch of grass.

Now here they were. Hours of wrestling back and forth with his thoughts, and they were alone at last. The giddiness that had carried Edward through the trials of his long dark night suddenly fled him, and he found his prepared speech seemed totally inadequate.

“Well, go on then. Kiss me,” he blurted.

Barrow was silent for a long moment. “I—I don’t understand,” he said.

“Don’t you want to? Isn’t that what all this is about?”

“I—I don’t—is this a game?” there was a hard, flinty edge to Barrow’s voice. “Do you think that’s funny, to have me on?”

“No! Of course I don’t! I thought—you said—”

“I know what I bloody said—”

“Then what’s stopping you?” Edward reached out, frustrated, and managed to grab the other man’s arm, just above the elbow. He slid his grasp down, pulling on Barrows’ wrist. “Isn’t this what you want?”

“What I want—” Barrow broke off, pulling loose from his grasp. “You’re not—like me. I couldn’t—not if you just want to fool around—I’m not a plaything. I’m not a toy you can leave once you’re bored—”

“I’ve fooled around,” Edward blurted. “Hasn’t everyone?”

Barrow was quiet, so quiet Edward was afraid he’d left. “No,” he finally answered, low and strangled. “Not everyone.”

“You see, I rather thought— all of that—well that that was something I would leave behind me, that I could sort of—set it aside, once I had other responsibilities. And I thought I had—but you— I didn’t realize I could—that is could _be_ so—it’s what you said, it has to be _you_— for the love of God, don’t let me make a fool of myself. Say something!”

Suddenly Barrow was beside him, warm and smelling of Brillantine and cigarettes. “Are you sure?” he asked, simply.

“Of course I’m not sure! What if we aren’t—compatible, like that? How will it work? Where will we live? How are we supposed to—in daily life, how would we be—?”

“Just like this,” Barrow was so close, he twined his hands in Edward’s fingers—his heart leapt in his throat. “I promise, just like this.”

“What if you get sick of me?” Edward asked, his voice small. “What if you wake up one day and you’re sick to death of an old cripple?”

“I would never—”

“Because you can’t leave me, you understand? Not if we start out together, not if we manage to make something of it. You can’t decide one day that you prefer someone whole and strong. You have to _promise_ that it will work. I couldn’t bear to be alone, shut up and forgotten like a broken-down—”

There was a hand on his face, and here was the kiss he had asked for—a revelation, a divine intervention— he threw caution to the wind, frantic, grasping, _at last at last, thank God, at last_—

* * *

Later, they lay together in the grass, a strong arm around Edward’s chest, warm breath on his cheek.

“Thomas,” he said aloud, broaching the last façade. “It has to be you, you know. I couldn’t be anyone else. Mother called with this ghastly idea and I realized—what it would mean if you were to leave—”

“How could you think I would leave you?” Thomas huffed, into his shoulder. “When I would move heaven and earth to keep us together? When I already _have_ moved heaven and earth, it feels like.”

“Delusions of grandeur.”

“You try to pull one over on the British Army,” Thomas muttered, crossly, and Edward laughed. He rolled over, finding Thomas’ chest, then climbing his hands upward until he could take the man’s face in his grasp.

“You walked through fire to be with me.”

“I’d do it again. I’d do it again with a song on my lips.”

“Tipperary?” Edward asked, innocently.

“The anthem of the cannon-fodder,” Thomas’ voice was harsh, and Edward was afraid he’d already put his foot in it—but then he felt Thomas press his forehead to him, so close their noses touched—

“I would march into hell for you, Tipperary and all,” he whispered.

* * *

Thomas warned him, nearly begged him to do a better job of pretending nothing had happened—to go back to the way it was before, which was already much too familiar and obvious—

But Edward had never been good at subterfuge.

“You’re in a cheery mood, Lieutenant,” Corporal Bernard said. “May I ask why?”

“The war will end soon,” Edward demurred. “Isn’t everyone cheery?”

“You most of all, sir.”

“Well perhaps I hated it more than anyone. I’m so terribly anxious for spring.”

“It’s October, sir,” Bernard said, puzzled.

“Well, I’ve got flowers on the brain,” was his only reply.

* * *

It was so hard to make plans, when everything was up in the air—the war was done, but it wasn’t over, somehow. It dragged, and dragged—

“You don’t—you don’t plan on marrying, do you?” Thomas asked him, abruptly.

“Not since my injury,” Edward said, “and certainly not now. I would think you’d like the charade even less, with a wife to dodge on top of everything else.”

“But—would you have? Would you ever want to?”

“Would I have? Almost certainly. They all made it very clear that was expected of me.”

“But did you _want_ to—”

“Steady,” Edward held up his hands. “They’re not without their charms, girls. Women, I should say—and they were such great sports to let me sample those charms. Angels, every one of them— I wouldn’t say it was off the table.”

“Would it ever be on the table again?”

“Is that what this is about?” Edward asked. “Are you asking if I’ll throw you over to chase skirts?”

“It’s happened before,” Thomas said, darkly. “If you liked it—if you thought it was easier—”

“It would be _easier_ to let my mother dress me in a sailor suit and push me around in a pram all day, but it the very last thing I want,” Edward said, crossly. “Have a little faith in me, please!”

“What about someone like you—who’s been all the places you been, and likes all the things you like—” Thomas started, working himself into a lather.

“I’ve had that,” Edward said, stubbornly. “And what I like best is you. Does that really surprise you?”

“A bit,” Thomas admitted.

“Then I have not made you feel adequately appreciated,” Edward resolved. “I _adore_ you, idiot. Come here…”

* * *

It was the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month, and the war was officially over.

Sergeant Barrow had been in good humor lately, and contrary to Edward’s earlier prediction the wine flowed freely that night.

“You’re always asking me what I learned at Oxford,” Edward whispered.

“Hmm?”

“Find us somewhere private,” he went on, softly, “and I’ll show you.”

* * *

“You know,” he whispered, “my friends—my very dearest friends—they call me Ted.”

Thomas rolled towards him, tracing his fingers over his jaw. “Do they?”

“Yes. Or they did, a long time ago.”

“Am I a dear friend?”

“The very dearest,” Edward assured him. “The most beloved.”

Edward felt Barrow’s nose press just beneath his ear. “Teddy,” whispered, and Edward laughed aloud.

“Teddy!” he giggled, even as Thomas shushed him.

“Yes,” he said, resolutely. “Teddy.”

And he would hear no more about it.

* * *

The army was finally ready to release him back into the wild—but Thomas was still needed.

“You don’t have to go back there,” Thomas said. “I can—I can think of something, to keep you closer…”

“This is the only thing that makes sense,” Edward sighed.

“You shouldn’t have to go back there—not after they dropped you flat.” It touched him that Thomas was still angry on his behalf.

“I’m not thrilled, but I’m also not keen to just slink away with my tail between my legs. It is still _my_ house, until Jack finds some legal loophole to finally deprive me of it—and even then, it’s my home.”

“Will you fight for it? Fight for your place?”

“I’ve been through a war,” Edward replied, wearily. “I’m tired of fighting.”

Thomas took his wrist, holding it gently. “You can’t ever stop.”

Edward smiled. “I don’t mean like that. I only mean—that little fiefdom was my whole world, once upon a time. But places like that—they belong to the past. Besides, it would be much more difficult for us to get on, with the eyes on the county on us.”

“I’d make it work, if you wanted it,” Thomas said. Edward laughed.

“I know you would,”

Thomas was quiet for a moment. “Promise me you won’t give up,” he said, softly. “Promise me that—if things are dark, you’ll get a message to me. I’ll find a way to come to you, I promise, if you need me I’ll be there—”

“You don’t have to worry,” Edward promised. “I’ll be waiting—impatiently, perhaps, but I’ll be there waiting for you.”

Thomas took his hand, brought it up to his mouth, and pressed his lips firmly against the inside of his wrist. He repeated the gesture with the other— “there,” he said, voice thick. “Sealed with a kiss. Unbreakable. You can’t open them up now.”

Edward wanted to laugh, but Thomas sounded so bleak. “An unbreakable seal,” he agreed. “Let not man put asunder what the Sergeant stitched together.”

“I mean it. I’ll worry every day.”

“Then I will write,” Edward promised. “I’ll call on the telephone. I’ll stand in the garden and fire off flares. I’ll build a beacon a hundred feet tall and set it alight, so you can see the smoke all the way up here…”

“See that you do,” Thomas told him, sternly.

* * *

It was, at long last, time to leave Farley Hall—to leave the army, and enter the real world again.

How strange, to be wearing civilian clothes, walking to the car, ready to take the train back home, to act like nothing changed at all—

How strange to be leaving Thomas, when it was Thomas who had breathed this strange new life into him.

“Lieutenant—” Thomas started, then stopped himself. “That is, Mr. Courtenay—”

“Sergeant,” Edward cut him off. “This is only au revoir, not adieu. The job’s waiting for you, the moment you’re ready to take it.”

“Yes sir—” it was bizarre but familiar, to slip back into these roles. “I’ll let you know straightaway.”

“See that you do,” he held out his hand, and Thomas took it—Edward couldn’t help himself, he wrapped both his hands around Thomas’ own and squeezed, in a gesture just a hair too familiar to be unremarkable.

But then, they were old army mates—there was leeway there.

“Take good care, Sergeant. Keep the nurses in line,” Edward said, fighting to keep his tone jovial.

“And you, sir. Don’t go about whacking anyone with that stick unless they really deserve it.”

“No promises,” Edward said. But he was stalling. Both of them were terribly close to tears. “Well, then. Best be off.”

“Yes sir,” Barrow said. “I’ll just get you in the car…”

They brushed hands—one last, fleeting touch—before the car door shut, and Edward heard crunching footsteps against the gravel.

He was, for the first time in nearly two years, alone—even in the presence of his mother and the cab driver, he was so terribly alone—

But not for long.


	3. Appleyard Manor

The village nearest Appleyard Manor was too small to have its own rail station. Thomas wasn’t quite presumptuous enough to ask to have the car sent around, and whoever was writing Edward’s letters hadn’t offered, so he had a substantial walk before him in those first golden hours of morning. Ordinarily, he would have used this time to stew over the slight.

But he had other things on his mind. 

Such as the realization nearly six weeks ago that Edward’s voice was no longer present in the letters that carried his name. He’d cracked and done what he shouldn’t, made the accusation in writing and sent it off—by the time he thought better of it the postbox was emptied and his letter chugging south, nothing to be done.

_They can’t know anything_, Thomas assured himself. They wouldn’t have gone quiet, if they’d known he and Teddy were—together. He would have gotten some sternly worded order to bugger off and never darken their door step etc., or perhaps a knock in the night and an MP at the door. Shot at dawn for unspeakable acts in the linen closet.

But there was no letter, no knock. Just…silence. 

It was a crisp, chill morning and his breath fogged before him like a cloud of cigarette smoke as he walked. He blew out a long breath, watching the vaporous stream disappear into the cloudless sky.

There was always a chance that Edward had gone off him, in their time apart—it was hard to judge, when their letters had to be so stilted and formal, always wary of a prying eye. Thomas thought he had a new appreciation for the Crawley sisters, smothered under an endless parade of overbearing chaperones. No wonder they were all a bit batty.

But then, Phillip’s letters had been full of passion and promises until the very end, so there was really no way for him to know…

Edward would have told him, noble bastard. He would have written and been explicit—well, as explicit as he could be—that Thomas’s services were No Longer Required. It would have been gallant and stupid, full of phrases like My Dear Fellow and So Dreadfully Sorry Old Chap and stuffed with crisp pound notes for Thomas to dry his tears with.

_He would have told me if it was over. _

Thomas wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

So here he was with no return ticket in his pocket, having brashly written that he was arriving at this hour on this day (_whether you like it or not_, which he had not explicitly stated but heavily implied), walking his sorry, silly self up to another big house full of people who hated him. 

_ Well done, Sergeant. You’ve learned ever so much in the army. _

If he were smart, he would turn around and march back to the train station, take up with that man who offered to deal him in on his very-lucrative-if-not-entirely legal ventures…

But only Edward had ever called Thomas ‘clever’, so here he was with his hands in his pockets, trudging through the countryside at the crack of dawn.

He stopped for a moment, taking in his surroundings. This was the place Edward loved best. It was as he described—clear-flowing rivers, stark, rolling moors…

_Maybe this is where we’ll be happy. _

The thought was brisk, bracing—a slug of rum before the scramble over the top. Thomas wrapped himself it in, wound it through his fingers, held it to his chest. They had made it out alive. It was all sunshine and smooth sailing from here out on.

Thomas picked up the pace, marching quick-time towards the village.

* * *

It was still early when he made it into town—‘town’ being a generous description, ‘hamlet’ might be better suited for the tiny little village. He looked at his watch—they’d be stirring downstairs, but unless Edward was keeping good army habits he’d still be asleep along with the rest of them up top. Thomas didn’t fancy an awkward breakfast in the servant’s hall, making small talk with people he hoped to know only briefly.

They’d talked, back and forth, about how they could live together—they’d agreed that it was best to get their own place, and get it quick. Edward had hopefully already conveyed this information to his family, who Thomas thought might be privately grateful to have him off their hands. Though the thought made him seethe, it _was_ conductive to them living free and easy, away from prying eyes. Thomas wasn’t _so_ keen to play dutiful servant, but it wasn’t like they had options.

Perhaps that was the real reason for his reluctance—breaking bread at the table in the servant’s hall would feel like a step backwards, not forwards. All that was supposed to be behind him now.

He wished he had this revelation sooner—he hadn’t eaten anything on the train, and now he was starving. There was, luckily enough, a small establishment—a creaking sign read _The Windfall Inn_ in cracked lettering— where he could have a quick breakfast and steel his resolve.

A bell tinkled when he pushed the door open, but no one came to wait on him. There was a bar, and a few low tables with a handful of guests. Their conversation stilled, and they turned to look at him as one—

Sized him up, in silence—

Then turned back to their meals, muttering too low for him to hear. Thomas drummed his fingers on the bar, impatiently.

There was, at long last, signs of life from the back—a woman, not so old but with dark circles under her eyes and lines around her mouth bustled through the door, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Who’re you?” she asked. Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“A potential customer,” he replied_, so let’s try a little more honey and less vinegar, please_. “A bloke in search of some breakfast.”

“We’re not serving breakfast,” she said, curtly. Thomas looked pointedly at the other diners. “You can have a sausage roll, but that’s all we’ve got.”

Thomas bid a sad farewell to his dream of eggs and ham. “And a cup of tea?”

She didn’t reply before disappearing into the back once again.

Thomas could admit, in the cold reckoning of hindsight, that he had on rare occasions provided some poor service in his day—but this really was something else. _Some of us only just fought a war, you know_, he thought, pulling out his own chair and taking a seat.

“Who’re you, then?” He looked up, at the motley collection of locals who’d walked over to his table.

“Mr. Thomas Barrow, mostly recently RAMC,” he said, by way of introduction. He was discharged, but by God he’d been at it for over four years, and felt he was still owed a bit of respect. 

He did not offer his hand.

“Oh, _Mr_. Thomas Barrow,” the man said, “lah-di-dah. I expect you think you’re the only man in who’s ever been in the army?”

“I think that’s not especially charitable of you,” Thomas replied, coolly.

“If it’s charity that brought you here, you’d best be off. You’ll get none.”

“Work, actually.”

The man laughed in his face. “Work! You’d best move along, then, there’s none of that neither.”

Thomas should have just politely agreed, abandoned his sausage roll, and gone about his way. That was the sensible thing to do. But he was tired of being sensible—the months of waiting, agonizing, and longing had put him over his limit.

“I’ll have you know there’s a job waiting for me,” he said, “up at the manor.”

“Ooo, you hear that lads? Up at the manor,” the man jeered. Thomas kept his face schooled, but only just. He was outnumbered, and never been had much success when things came to blows—but God, he was tempted to try his luck again…

“Yes sir, no sir, may I wipe your arse sir—”

That was more than he could handle. Thomas was on his feet, bringing himself to his full height.

“I’ll not have you speak about Mr. Courtenay in my presence,” he said, low and dangerous, too furious to shout.

The man looked up at him, equally defiant:

“_Mr. Courtenay_, won’t you have fun with old Jack—”

“I don’t work for Jack!” Thomas snapped. It was the first thing he said that gave the men some pause.

“Is it—little Ed?” a man—older, white-haired, sun-worn—piped up from another table. “You work for Young Master Eddie?”

“He hasn’t been the _young master_ for over ten years—” the ringleader sneered, but a few others were looking at Thomas with renewed interest.

“Have you—?” the elder gent was interrupted by the return of the landlady, who set the tea tray on Thomas’ table with unnecessary force.

“What in God’s name is going on here?” she said. “Malcolm Woods, are you harassing my customers?”

“Mary—”

“Go,” she pointed at the door. “Go on home, and don’t show your face around here until you’ve dried out, you hear me? It’s not even nine in the morning, for Christ’s sake! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Now _get_!”

Thomas thought Woods might strike her, and begrudgingly prepared himself to intervene—but after a long moment, he decided to cut his losses and go. He gave Thomas one last baleful stare before turning for the door.

Thomas met his stare, watching him go. He didn’t resume his seat until the man had gone.

“I’m sorry,” Mary the landlady said, quietly. “You’ve not got the best of us this morning.”

_And whose fault is that?_ Thomas wanted to ask, but accepted his cup instead. “Rough night for him, I take it?”

“Rough few years for all of us,” she said, wearily. “You’re off to work for Young Master Eddie, then?”

“If you mean _Mr. Courtenay_,” Thomas said, pointedly, “the _heir_ to—”

“Maybe he has changed,” she cut him off, snidely. “If he wants a little toady like you. He used to be the best of them.”

Thomas had enough. He took a long swig of his tea, bringing the cup down on the plate with a harsh clatter, and stood again. He fished in his pocket, throwing a handful of coins on the table.

“Charming place,” he said, coolly. “Lovely and warm.” He snatched his sausage roll of the plate, and stalked back out into the morning.

* * *

Thomas reasoned, as he stalked down the road, tearing vicious hunks off his breakfast, that his morning could only improve from its dismal start. Surely, he couldn’t get a worse reception than _that_.

He was quite wrong.

He had half a mind to march up to the front door and bang on it until someone took him straight to Edward, but it was vital he make a good first impression—Edward’s mother was already wary of him, and he had to really sell their double-act if they were to have any hope of pulling this thing off.

_Think of how it will be when this is past_, he reasoned, walking around to the back entrance. _Sunshine and smooth sailing_…

A weedy-looking footman answered the door. He couldn’t be older than eighteen.

“Can I help you?”

Thomas had given out too many of those superior down-the-nose glances to stand being on the receiving end.

“My name’s Barrow,” he said. “_Mr_. Thomas Barrow. I’m expected by the young master.”

He might as well speak to these people in a language they understood—or attempt to, at any rate. The footman looked confused.

“Wait here,” he said, warily, and shut the door in Thomas’ face.

Thomas didn’t expect to be waiting long—and yet the minutes ticked by, long and agonizing, and he considered lighting a cigarette to calm his nerves. He was reaching for his pack when the door opened again, revealing what could only be the butler—shorter than him, but not by much, and with an unmistakable air of smug superiority.

“Can I help you?” he asked, with a air of deep disdain the footman hadn’t quite managed.

Thomas took a long, steadying breath.

“Your footman’s not doing his job properly. I’m Thomas Barrow. I’m _expected_ by Mr. Courtenay.”

The butler raised an eyebrow. “Friends of the family usually come by the front door.”

That stung more than Thomas would like to admit. “Usually,” he said, “but I’ve come here on business. I’m to be brought on as his aide.”

“Perhaps you are unaware, but all staffing decisions in this house go through me, and I have made no such—”

Thomas had had enough of this. “_You_ hire body servants? Don’t try that on me, I know how this all works. I worked with Lieutenant Courtenay while he convalesced, and now that I’ve been discharged I’m to help him adjust to civilian life. Go on up and ask him, I’ll wait.”

He saw something flash in the butler’s eyes when he said _Lieutenant Courtenay_, but it was gone too quick to recognize—replaced by familiar anger at Thomas’ flagrant disrespect.

“Now, see here—”

“_You_ see here,” Thomas said, impatiently. “I’ve just traveled the length of the country and walked some distance to get here, and I’m am _most_ eager to get cracking at my _job_, so why don’t you just run along and let him know I’ve arrived—”

“I will do no such thing,” the butler replied, primly, “and instead, I will ask you to leave.”

“This is bloody ridiculous—!” Thomas shouted, but was cut off—

“If you were, in fact, expected by Mr. Courtenay, you would know for a fact that he is not at home, and not expected back for some time,” the butler said, severely. Thomas paused.

“He’s not here?” he repeated, dumbly. “Then—where is he?”

“And why would I tell you that?” the butler asked, with enough snide self-importance to give Carson a run for his money.

“When will he be back—?”

“Mr. Barrow, perhaps I have made myself unclear,” the man cut him off. “You are unexpected, and frankly, unwelcome. I will now ask you to leave a second time. If I have to ask again, it will be the police who escort you back to town. Now, if you don’t mind—”

Thomas didn’t even have time to sputter before the door slammed shut. He wanted to pound on it, shouting and cursing to turn the air blue— but Edward wouldn’t appreciate it if it had to come spring him from gaol their first day back together.

Thomas fixed his hat, shoved a cigarette in his mouth, and—seeing no other options—turned back towards town. He was seething, roiling with indignity, but beneath that, there as an undercurrent of nauseous worry.

_Where are you, Teddy? What in God’s name is going _on_ here?_

* * *

Thomas wandered up and down the main street, looking into shop windows without actually seeing anything displayed there. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself—he wasn’t keen to head back to the inn where he’d had his disastrous breakfast, but there didn’t seem to be anywhere else to get lodgings for the night. He should suck it up, swallow his pride and settle into a room to figure out his next steps…

He didn’t _want_ to get a room. He _wanted_ to see his beau. Some part of him, foolish and naïve, kept expecting Edward to turn the corner, or emerge from a shop, easily navigating the streets with his stick, out for a bit of fresh air—surely that’s all the silly pompous fool had meant, when he said _Mr. Courtenay isn’t here_. He’d call out, and Edward would turn to the sound of his voice they way he always did, and his face would light up—

“Turned away at the gates, were you?” Thomas was startled out of his reverie—it was the old man from the inn, who’d asked about _Little Ed_.

“What’s it to you?” Thomas asked, bitterly.

“Thought you might be,” the man looked him up and down. “They didn’t hire you—the family, I mean. You’re Eddie’s man.”

“Awfully _familiar_ of you,” Thomas replied, coolly, “but yes, that’s one way to put it.”

“You’re loyal to him, I can see that.” The man gave him a good long stare, as if sizing him up, and then nodded. He held out his hand to shake. “Glad to hear it, Mr. Barrow. My name’s Cleary. Why don’ t you join me for a drink, and we can catch up on the goings-on round here?”

Thomas was reluctant. If a strange man was going to buy him a drink, he’d prefer it not be someone’s old gaffer—he put that thought out of his head. Things were different now.

They were _supposed_ to be different.

But he wasn’t getting any closer to finding out what was going on by wandering in circles, so off the pub it was. “I could use a drink, after the morning I’ve had.”

“Yes,” Cleary said, darkly, “I’m sure you could.”

* * *

Thomas settled into the booth, while Clearly went to fetch them the promised drinks. He felt the weight of eyes on him—more curious than hostile, this time— and Thomas pretended to fiddle with his watch until Mr. Cleary reappeared with two foaming glasses.

“Settle your nerves, that will,” Cleary said, and Thomas drank deeply—it was good, at least. Watery beer might have been more than he could bear.

“So,” Cleary began, his voice pitched low. “You—work for the young master.”

“I will, once I figure out where he’s got to,” Thomas replied.

“So you haven’t seen him?” Cleary’s expression was unreadable. “Not—since the war?”

“Not since he was discharged, just after the Armistice,” Thomas took another sip. Cleary hesitated.

“And was he—well?”

Thomas paused. “How do you mean?”

“It’s only that—“ Clearly seemed unclear of how to phrase it. “Well, it’s a surprise to us, that you show up asking after him. We haven’t had any news on that front in some time.”

Thomas set his glass down. “How long is _some time_?”

“Maybe a year.”

“A year—!”

“Most of the manor staff was away at the war, fighting or working, and new family’s never been much for idle gossip with us in the village—its different, after old Sir Hubert died, like night and day…” he trailed off, meaningfully.

Thomas sat back in the booth. “Mr. Courtenay was at Bullecourt—in France. He was gassed nearly two years ago.”

“Gassed,” Cleary repeated, looking somber. “Is he…?”

“He’s luckier than some, in his recovery, but—” Thomas wondered why he felt hesitant. It wasn’t like it was a secret. “—there was an infection. It took his eyesight. He won’t see again.”

“He—oh,” Clearly seemed crestfallen. “Oh, that’s a shame. That’s a damn, terrible shame. When I think—when I think how I used to see him tearing about on that wild animal of his, pulling all sorts of stunts—” he shook his head. “He destroyed one of my hedgerows you know, crashing his damn horse through it.”

It wasn’t uncommon, but Thomas still smirked to think of Edward behaving like such a hooligan. “And you were none too pleased, I imagine.”

“I was furious. Then he had the gall to show up the next day and ask to help re-plant it.” Cleary smiled, sadly. “I wouldn’t have shouted so, if I knew that there would come day when—”

“There’s no need for that,” Thomas said, briskly. That attitude, he found, was poison when it came to the process of rehabilitation. “He’s adjusted perfectly well, and before you know it he’ll be a fountain _overflowing_ with new ways to make a nuisance of himself.”

Cleary raised an eyebrow. “Now who’s familiar?”

Thomas went cold with fear, but his mask never slipped: “Me and him are old army mates. I’ve _earned_ that privilege, Mr. Cleary.”

“So you are,” Cleary relented, and dropped the matter. “Even so, I hate that it should have happened to him. Nothing bad ever happens to the cruel ones, does it? They all die in bed.”

“No one gets what they deserve, good or bad,” Thomas agreed. Something occurred to him, and he set his glass down. “So you haven’t—seen him, then? Out and about?”

Cleary shook his head. “Not hide nor hair.”

Thomas felt cold with a new kind of fear. “Maybe—he stays at the house. Maybe he’s not ready—” that was a lie. He was ready. Edward could make his way forward and backward at Farley Hall, he could start on the path into town with a handful of pennies and come back with a bag of tarts still warm from them bakery. That’s been his last test, Thomas driving him to the gates of Farley Hall with a list for the grocer’s, telling him_ now come back with this or on it _and Edward had laughed—

“Could be,” Cleary sounded skeptical. “But—they’re funny folk. I’d be worried for him, shut up with the rest of the family.”

Thomas was sure he and Edward fit this man’s definition of ‘funny folk’, with their queer inclinations, so he wasn’t happy to hear the moniker applied to the as-far-as-he-knew normal and respectable Courtenays. “How so?”

Cleary shrugged. “Just—funny. Secretive. A little bit odd. Money does that, to some.” 

“They haven’t—” Thomas desperately thought of ways to make these seem normal, to quiet the raging flood of concern threatening to overwhelm him: “They haven’t—gone on holiday, somewhere? Maybe—”

“How would the likes of me know what the likes of them is up to?” Cleary scowled. “It’s why I asked you.”

“They didn’t say. The letters—didn’t say,” Thomas looked into his glass, at the dregs of his beer. What was he doing, telling a stranger all of this? Just because the old man had forgiven Edward for trampling his fields and mangling the blackthorns didn’t mean he’d forgive him for the acts committed in a disused attic bedroom—

“So what’ll you do?” Cleary asked. Thomas thought for a long moment about his answer.

“Wait,” he said, finally. “I’ll post up at the inn. If—if I meet up with the young master and find I’m surplus to requirement, then—” then he would wish he’d been blown straight to hell back on the Somme “—then I’ll pack up my things and sod off.”

“That’s decent of you,” Cleary stood, then offered a hand across the table. “I’ve got a place only a few miles out of the village. If you need a thing, just ask—they’ll point you in my direction.”

Thomas stared at the proffered hand. He wasn’t sure he trusted it—any more than he trusted anyone in this mad place.

He shook on it anyways.

“I’ll take you up on that,” was all he said in reply.

“See that you do,” Cleary said. “He’s—he’s a good lad. I’m glad he’s got someone watching his back.”

* * *

Thomas did as he’d said, securing a room from the land lady who was no friendlier for his continued patronage. He wandered the village aimlessly, trying to see it as Edward might have, when old Sir Hubert snuffed it and made him prince of this little kingdom. He imagined a little boy in a rolling carriage, face pressed up against the glass…

He wandered until dark, then had a quick dinner and went up to his room. He composed several letters—the first was long, concerning his train ride, the hostile greeting, his thwarted efforts to secure entry to the manor—and as he continued to write he outlined his worry, his loneliness, all the terrible things he’d imagined might have befallen Edward in his mysterious absence, even though every day he scanned the papers for a death notice with signs of a hushed-up suicide—

He tucked this letter in with his personal things. It would remain unsent. He could read it to Edward later, if he so desired, and he’d laugh and call Thomas a worrywart and a nanny-goat and other ridiculous things.

The second letter was much more sensible:

_Mr. Courtenay, _

_I have arrived in Appleyard. I’m afraid I made a mistake and came down before you were ready for me. It’s no matter, the town is very nice and I’ve put up at the Windfall for a few days. Please reach me there are your soonest convenience, as I am ready to begin work at a moment’s notice. _

_If the position is no longer available, I would be much obliged if you would again write me etc. and correct my error. _

_ Yours faithfully,_

_ T. Barrow_

‘Yours faithfully’ was risky, but he wasn’t quite able to make himself write ‘yours obediently’, even if it seemed true enough. This letter he addressed and stamped and would put in the post first thing, even though he felt exceptionally foolish doing so, with the house just up the road.

The third letter was more of a diary entry, in which he outlined all the things he’s like to do—go downstairs and flip a few tables, march up to the manor and set fire to the butler’s pantry, and then several very explicit and detailed honeymoon antics he’d like to partake in when they were alone at last.

This letter he burned as soon as it was finished, and as he watched it curl to ash in the fireplace felt a little better for having at least _some_ outlet for his frustration.

Even so, that night he stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep—unable even to dream.

_Where are you?_

* * *

In the next few days, Thomas went on some of the longest walks of his life.

He smoked through one pack of cigarettes, and then another.

He drank his way through a few more pints of excellent beer.

He wrote long letters—some, like his observations of the village, complete with scathing descriptions of people’s appearances and attitudes, he saved for Edward.

Most he burned.

He waited.

* * *

The landlady (whose full name, he learned, was Mary Pickford Yes-Like-The-Actress, and she’d knock you down if she had to hear one word about it) warmed to him slightly, and word got around that he was Mr. Ed Courtenay’s Man, which always made Thomas uncomfortable even as it gave him a little thrill. A few approached him, asking for news of the young master, and Thomas tried to respect Edward’s privacy best he could, but generally gave a vague overview of the stick, the braille, et cetera.

In return, he was treated to a few more stories of Edward’s misspent youth: learning to set snares for rabbits and traps for crayfish, rambling through the fields without regard for lines of property, dodging his tutor to climb the apple trees and read books in their branches, making a snack of the would-be harvest…

For every story that made him smile, there as an offhand comment or dark look in the direction of the manor that did nothing to relieve his anxiety.

He saw the footman in town, from time to time—and, judging by how quickly he scarpered, the footman saw _him_. He thought about approaching him, trying to wheedle information out of him like he had with the hallboys and maids at the Abbey; but he wasn’t quite so desperate yet.

Yet.

* * *

He was outside, smoking a cigarette while Mary-Yes-I’ve-Got-A-Funny-Name was beating rugs and giving him the town gossip when a car rolled by—the first he’d seen in the little village. It was sleek and shiny and very, very expensive—

And in the window, a pale face and thatch of curly hair—

Thomas was seized by the mad urge to run after the car, chase it like a dog, barking and howling. He’d run all the way to the bloody house like a footman of old, so he could be there when they rolled to a stop and tear the door open and finally, finally plant a kiss on that big stupid face—

“That’s them,” Mary said, matter-of-factly.

“Obviously,” Thomas snapped.

“No need to bite my head off,” she said, leaning on her dustbeater. “You’re off to the manor, then?”

“No,” he said, reluctantly. “They know I’m here. There will be a letter, or someone to fetch me.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“There _will_ be.”

“And what if there’s not?”

“Then I will march down there and find out what the hell is going on for myself,” Thomas vowed.

* * *

A letter did not arrive.

A man did not come to fetch him

Thomas could have screamed.

* * *

He cornered the footman at the post-box, where he was depositing mail. The boy turned pale, realizing he was trapped, but couldn’t find an opening to make a run for it.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” he blurted out.

“Too bad. We’re talking now,” Thomas told him, sternly. “Is he getting my letters?”

“Who—?”

“Don’t be stupid. Is he getting my letters?”

“I don’t know,” the footman admitted. “I give them to her ladyship, seeing as he can’t—“ he broke off, looking at Thomas as if fearful of his reaction: “I don’t know what she does with them.”

“So he doesn’t know I’m here. Do they?”

“Mr. Fletcher said not to trouble the family about it—”

“Who’s he? The butler?”

The footman nodded.

“What’s your name, then?”

The boy looked at him warily, and Thomas resisted the call of violence.

“I’ll just ask one of them,” he said, gesturing around the square.

“Geoffrey,” the boy muttered, eyes downcast.

“Alright, Geoff,” Thomas reached into his coat, pulling out a sheaf of letters. “You see this? See who it’s addressed to? Thomas Barrow, heard of him? I’ll refresh your memory: that’s me. Now, see here, at the bottom—” he pointed to the two shaky but clearly legible initials—“E.C.? You know who that stands for—?”

“For Mr. Edward—”

“Good lad, Geoff, it bloody well does.”

“I’m not called _Geoff_—”

“Listen to me,” Thomas said, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder—and gripping him tight when he tried to squirm away. “If I hear from Mr. Edward himself that my services are no longer required—if he tells me, _to my face_, to fuck off—then I will. I will fuck off into the night, tail between my legs. But until I hear that straight from his own lips, I will continue to stay in this village, and I will continue to make things _exceptionally_ uncomfortable for everyone involved. Look at me, Geoff—do you want me to barge into the dining room? Do you want a scene at dinner?”

Geoffrey blanched. “Mr. Barrow, I think I should call the police—”

“Don’t—don’t do that.” Thomas ran a hand through his hair, feeling as though he was truly at the end of his rope.

“I’m just—I’m concerned about him. About his welfare, that is. I worked very closely with Mr. Courtenay, during the war—he has an injury that needs specialist care. I feel—I feel a very keen responsibility to him, as a former patient. I have a duty to see it through.”

He worried that he’d overplayed his hand. Geoff looked skeptical.

“Can you just tell him I’m here?” Thomas’ voice softened, and he felt himself deflate, like a balloon. “I only want to know that everything’s as it should be.” 

Here he was, reduced to begging a teenager to carry a message to his lover. Well done, Sergeant Barrow.

Welcome to rock bottom.

Geoffrey gave him a long, measuring look. “If I get a chance,” he said, finally, “I’ll say something to him. I’ll let him know.”

Thomas gave him a clap on the shoulder so powerful it nearly bowled the boy over. “Good lad, Geoff! There’s a good lad! Off with you now, I think you’ve dawdled long enough, off you go--!”

* * *

His powers of persuasion bore fruit—if not the fruit he was hoping for. Two days later, Landlady Mary handed him a letter written on fine stationary:

_Mr. Barrow, _

_ I would request your presence at my home at 3:00 today. Please be punctual. _

_ Cordially,_

_ Mrs. Lucretia Courtenay_

Thomas has never received a less cordial letter in his life. He was no less glad to get it.

He settled up with Mary, who wished him a somewhat grim ‘good luck’, and then raced to his room to throw his things into his valise.

One way or another, he wouldn’t be staying at the inn any longer.

* * *

Appleyard Manor was an imposing series of buildings, built of dark wood with high peaked roofs. On the front door was a black iron knocker, a snarling boar with a ring in its nose.

Thomas snarled back, before reaching over and ringing the bell.

Fletcher appeared, unable to hide his disapproving scowl. Thomas smiled pleasantly at him.

“Here we are again,” he said, by way of greeting. “Just like I told you.”

“If you’d come this way, please, Barrow,” Fletcher held out his arm.

“That’s Mr. Barrow to the likes of you—”

“My apologies, _Mr. Barrow_, but you’d hate to keep Mrs. Courtenay waiting,” Fletcher gritted out.

“I certainly would,” Thomas said, hefting his suitcase. “You’ll take this for me, won’t you?”

Fletcher scowled again. Nevertheless, he had no choice but to comply.

Thomas had an image to protect, and couldn’t spend much time craning his head and gawking. Even so, he was impressed by the vast entryway, whitewash walls and high vaulting timbers up to the ceiling. He was led to a smaller room off the hall, all done up in dark wood and gilded accents. Here sat Mrs. Courtenay—primly pouring a cup of tea.

“Barrow,” she said, without looking directly at him. “Do have a seat.”

Thomas felt slightly off-kilter. In theory, this was the best reception he could have hoped for—and yet it all felt so wrong. The few times he had met Mrs. Courtenay, she’d been either hysterical, or weepy, or seized by some fit of vapors—and from what Edward said, that wasn’t unusual. Now, though, she was all business, cold and condescending in a way Lady Grantham never was.

He took his seat, as instructed, and accepted the cup, even though he was suddenly struck by the mad delusion that it wasn’t safe to drink.

And where the hell was Edward?

“We’ve met before, of course,” Mrs. Courtenay went on, stirring her own tea. “At the hospital.”

“Yes ma’am,” Thomas replied, automatically.

“And you enjoyed that work, at the hospital?”

“I did, ma’am. Very much.” Could anyone be said to enjoy the long hours and brutal suffering of a wartime hospital?

But he’d had the dignity of rank and honest work and the miles between him and the River Somme—

“And is that _why_,” she started, eyes flashing, “you are so dreadfully insistent that you continue to work for my son?”

Thomas felt his mouth go dry. He hadn’t anticipated having to explain himself. In hindsight, the actions of the past week seemed suspicious, indeed. “Lieutenant—that is to say, Mr. Courtenay—and I—we worked together quite well, and seeing as—well, I was in service before the war, and he—that is to say, Mr. Courtenay thought it would make me an ideal candidate for the job.”

“And that was Edward’s idea,” she said, not quite a question—not quite an accusation.

“Yes ma’am.” That, at least, was perfectly true—Edward suggested it first. She stared into his face, searching for some sign of duplicity.

Thomas tried as hard as he could to look as though he had nothing to hide.

“You are aware, of course, that my son’s injury has left him in delicate condition,” she said, as if casually remarking on the weather.

Thomas was _not_ aware. “He's recovered enough to be discharged on his own—”

“He’s recovered all he can, of course,” Mrs. Courtenay cut him off, “but he needs continued care—and you see, Barrow, I do wonder what it is you seem so certain you can do for him that the nurses cannot.”

_ Mother thinks I need a nursemaid_, Edward had told him, rolling his eyes_. I shall tell her no, of course, I shall use a bayonet to carve it in the lawn in letters ten feet tall if I must_—

\--_but she never listens to me_…

“I’m trained as a valet,” he said, his mouth dry. “I—I was valet to the Earl of Grantham_—” for about a week_ “—and I trained in accommodations for the blind when I was at Farley Hall—"

“It’s hard for men to get work, with you all coming back at once,” Mrs. Courtenay remarked. “I suppose there are fewer positions, when so many young gentlemen were killed?”

“I—I hadn’t thought of it, ma’am…”

“Hadn’t you?” she raised an eyebrow, and Thomas hated to see that expression of Edward’s on her face. “Mr. Barrow, I am not unsympathetic to your difficulties, especially as you made such a lasting impression on my son—nor is my husband. He has written you a cheque for one hundred and fifty pounds.”

The amount made Thomas’ head spin. “What for?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. Courtenay put her cup down. “So that you will leave us alone!”

They wanted to buy him off. Thomas had several choice replies to that bit of news, all of them clogging up his throat as he sputtered: “I’m not—you’re mistaken—Mrs. Courtenay, I came here for work, good honest work, Mr. Courtenay and I had an _understanding_—”

“That was months ago,” she said, heatedly. “Circumstances have changed.”

“Changed? Changed how?” Thomas pressed.

“You forget yourself, Mr. Barrow—”

“Mother? What’s going on in there?” Thomas turned, and nearly fell out of his chair—here was Edward, tall and strong and utterly impossible, because there were no scars around his eyes and he looked straight at Thomas—

\--and those eyes were hard and cold and there was no spark of recognition—

“Steady, man,” he smirked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” He turned to Mrs. Courtenay: “Ed always forgets to warn people we’re twins.”

Twins. _Twins_. Yes. That made sense—

No it didn’t, everything in this village and this house was backwards and upside-down and Thomas wanted nothing more than to get the bloody hell _out_ of there—

“You’re Barrow, I take it?” Jack Courtenay asked. “Well, you’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

“Is Mr. Courtenay here?” Thomas asked, shell-shocked. “I—if it’s not too much trouble, I would like to speak to him.”

“Would you now? Bold as brass,” Jack said, mockingly.

“My son,” Mrs. Courtenay’s voice was high, and Thomas feared she was near another fit of hysterics—how strange, that she kept her cool until her sons were present— “is _ill_. He is simply too ill for visitors.”

“How? What’s wrong?” Thomas asked.

“It’s frankly none of your business—” Jack started, but Thomas wasn’t hearing it from him.

“I can help,” Thomas pleaded. “I—I worked in an army hospital. I can help.” He thought he saw something soften in Mrs. Courtenay’s expression—but it was gone before he could be sure.

“Mr. Courtenay has been ill for some time,” she said, briskly. “He is currently recovering from treatment. You will understand that he is in fragile condition.”

But Edward was fine—he had been _fine_, he had to be, nothing in his letters suggested his wasn’t fine— Thomas wanted to tear his hair out. What the _fuck_ was going on? “Will he be well soon?”

“That is a matter for the doctors,” Mrs. Courtenay said primly.

“Now, with your questions answered,” Jack started, “I think its time for you to leave—”

Thomas wasn’t about to be fobbed off. “I won’t go,” he said, stubbornly. “You can kick me out of the house, but I’ll just post up in the inn.” He reached into his breast pocket, pulling out the letters again. “I have it in writing—if Mr. Courtenay’s changed his mind about me—about the job, then I’ll hear it from him and no one else—” one look at Mrs. Courtenay’s face, and he amended a quick “begging your pardon, ma’am” to his demand.

“Well,” Jack said, after a long, tense pause. “There’s nothing for it then, if you’re so damned determined to make a nuisance of yourself. Take your things up to the attic until Father can sort you out—or Ed comes around.”

“Jack—” Mrs. Courtenay started, but then she glanced at Thomas, and lowered her voice “—he’s not in any state to handle this sort of thing—”

“I said we’ll let Father sort it out,” Jack repeated, meaningfully. Mrs. Courtenay looked frustrated.

“But all this fuss in the house, Eddie needs peace and quiet—”

“I’ll keep quiet,” Thomas said, numbly. “Like a church mouse, ma’am. You won’t even know I’m here.”

She looked at him, at furious and miserable in one: “See that you are. Fletcher? Take his things up, show him where he’ll stay…”

* * *

Fletcher fobbed him off on Geoffrey, who scowled at Thomas before lugging his suitcase up the attic stairs. The rooms weren’t light and airy the way they were at Downton—his was dark, with moldering wallpaper and a tiny window that barely let in any sunshine.

“Did you tell him?” Thomas asked. “Did you tell him I’m here?”

Geoffrey shook his head. “No one’s allowed in the young master’s sickroom, ‘cept the nurses and family. But the mistress—” here, the boy had the gall to look smug— “she trusts me, since I’m the only one who tells her what’s what in the village. She needed to see you, and she wouldn’t hear it from anyone but me.”

Thomas has a strange sensation of looking into a mirror and seeing someone he no longer recognized. _Play with fire and you’ll get burned, my lad_, he thought.

“I owe you,” he said aloud. The boy raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll remember that.”

“Well, remember it somewhere else,” Thomas snapped. “Go on, you’ve got things to be doing—”

Geoffrey rolled his eyes, but did as he was told—only stopping to pause in the doorway.

“I only started working after he’d gone, but everyone likes Master Edward best,” he said, hesitantly. “He seemed nice.”

“Yes,” Thomas replied, warily. “He is. You’ll see for yourself, soon enough.”

“I hope so. I hope he comes ‘round.” Geoffrey looked up at him, with searching eyes. “Is that why you’re so keen for the job?”

Thomas turned, opening his suitcase. “I got sick of being a footman. If you ever want something better, you’d best be ready to fight for it.”

“I suppose,” Geoffrey didn’t sound convinced, but he did finally leave.

* * *

Dinner was a miserable affair. The staff made reluctant room for Thomas near the head of the table, but he couldn’t bring himself to be pleased about it. Everyone kept shooting him furtive, watchful glances—most curious, some suspicious— but almost uniformly they looked to Old Fletcher next before staring at their food.

“Mr. Barrow knew Master Edward,” Geoffrey ventured, hesitantly. “They were pals during the war.”

Fletcher’s eyes flashed. “You’re forgetting yourself, Geoffrey.”

“Sorry, Mr. Fletcher, I only thought—"

“You will dine in silence or you will dine in the yard.”

No one spoke after that.

* * *

Thomas was taking matters into his own hands.

Geoffrey hadn’t even needed to be asked—he’d found Thomas after dinner, whispering in his ear—_his room’s up the stairs, to the right, right again, second door. There’s always nurses, but no one watches and they sneak off sometimes_…

Thomas ducked into a disused guest room across the hall, lying on his belly and watching through the gap at the bottom of the door—it was at least an hour before he saw that door open slowly, carefully, and a pair of heeled boots make a hasty retreat—

_It’s a lucky thing they all took up smoking in the war_, he thought to himself. But it wasn’t enough to calm him down, his heart was in his throat—the door creaked when it pulled it open, spilling light into the hallway, and he nearly felt it stop—

“Who’s that?” Edward’s voice was so weak, Thomas felt something in his chest clench to hear that. He walked to the bedside—here he was, at long last, he could look at the man he loved—

\--but oh God, why was he so _pale_, why did he look so _thin_— what were these dark circles in under his eyes—?

“Who is that?” Edward asked, rolling over with seemingly great effort. “Who—”

“It’s me,” Thomas choked out. “I’m here.”

The wave of pathetic relief that swept over Edward’s face was almost more than he could stand. “Oh my God,” he whispered, holding out his hands, “oh my God—I thought you’d forgotten me—I thought it was never real to begin with—”

Thomas grasped his outstretched hand, putting another on his face and leaning in close, so their foreheads touched, “how could I forget you—?”

“It’s been—God, it’s been a nightmare, and I thought maybe—maybe I dreamt you—”

“I’m here,” Thomas squeezed his hand, “I’m here—what’s happened? How long have you been ill?”

“I’m not—I wasn’t—I must be now, surely—Thomas I’ve been going _mad_—” his voice trembled, and Thomas saw his eyes well with tears—

“It’s alright. I’m here—”

“I was such a fool, I thought—I didn’t think, I couldn’t get my cufflinks in and I asked Fletcher for help but he saw—I forget about the scars, I’m such a fool—but I didn’t realize he _saw_, I never dreamed he would _tell_—”

Thomas went cold. “He told them—”

“And they took me to this awful place—I should have said no, I should have refused, tried to run, but I was already feeling low and it all seemed impossible—and mother cried and cried she’s so horrible when she cries I almost believed her when she said it would make me better— don’t let them send me back, I won’t go back—”

“That’s not going to happen,” Thomas assured him. “I promise.”

“We have to get out of here,” Edward gripped his hand tight, hauling himself into a half-seated position— “_you have to get me out of here_—”

“I promise you, Teddy,” Thomas said, numbly, “I promise I’ll make it right—”

“Let’s go right now, let’s go—!”

Thomas almost agreed, he almost slid his shoulder under Edward’s arm and dragged him out of bed, ready to carry him on his back all the way to the train station—

“I promise,” he repeated, stupidly. “But not—now we can’t—I need time. To make a plan—”

“There’s no _time_ I’ve been trapped here for _ages_ we have to _go_—you can’t leave me—you can’t leave without me—!”

It was all so wrong. Everything was so wrong. He should have been making a plan, he should have been telling Teddy something reassuring, something to calm him down, they way he had after the bad dreams or bad days but all he could do was look at his worn he looked in the lamplight, how used, how all the sunlight he’d drunk up while rehabilitating had been siphoned away—

_And you just let it happen—_

Footsteps on the stair—

“Someone’s coming,” Thomas said, quickly. “I have to go—”

“No! No, no, you can’t—!”

“I came back for you,” Thomas said. “I came back for you, like I promised I would, I’ll come back again, and we’ll leave—”

“Thomas don’t _leave_ me—!”

“I’m not, I’m not—” Thomas leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Edward’s forehead. “I’m here, I’m in the attic—I’ll be back—”

“Please—!”

Thomas just barely made it around the corner before he heard the nurse jogging back to her post, alerted by the sounds of Edward’s continued cries.

“Mr. Courtenay, what’s happened? What’s wrong—?”

Thomas only stayed long enough to hear Edward’s protests die away to silence before stealing away to the back stair.

* * *

He felt—numb. Poleaxed. All the care that had gone in to making sure they stayed out of sight, that they appeared as old comrades in arms and nothing else—he hadn’t thought of the scars, the questions—

He knew what happened at those places, where they took lunatics. Some of them were alright, lots of soft blunted edges and big sunny gardens, but some—

Some he couldn’t stand to think about. 

Edward wasn’t a lunatic—he was depressed, neurasthenic, maybe shell-shocked—but just a bit, no more than any other man who’d been thrown by a grenade or knocked silly by a mortar. He’d only hurt himself because they’d tried to leave him alone before he was _ready_—

It wasn’t until Thomas was safely back in his attic room that the dire reality of their situation occurred to him. Edward was ill—just as ill as he had been in those early days at Downton, possibly unable to travel under his own steam. They were deep behind enemy lines, the manor secure as any prisoner-of-war camp—watchful eyes everywhere he looked, no transport, and the nearest escape route miles away on foot…

He could have cried. They’d find a way to be rid of him soon enough, whenever Courtenay the Elder deigned to make an appearance—he had this _one_ chance to get Edward out, and he couldn’t, he just _couldn’t_, and all their plans and dreams come to nothing—

_Feeling sorry for ourselves, are we? _He could imagine O’Brien sneering at him. _Having a cry, you big stupid girl? Buck up, Sergeant. I hope you didn’t think it was going to be all giggles, that they’d just let you have your merry way with their firstborn and whisk him off to the city on the plain—_

Thomas swiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He could make this right. He’d outfoxed Carson, beaten Clarkson, survived the Hun and pulled one over on the British Army…

He wasn’t finished yet.

With shaking hands, he pulled a cigarette out of the pack and shoved it in his mouth. He fumbled in his suitcase, pulling out a sheet of paper, and began sketching out a crude floorplan—upstairs, downstairs, entries and exits…a mile into town, another four miles to the train…

Thomas had never had reason to make a promise before—but now he did, and by God, he intended to keep it. 

_ I'm getting you out if it's the last thing I do._

* * *

Thomas dragged himself down to breakfast in good time, though he hadn’t slept more than an hour and felt appropriately wretched. He was almost grateful for the stony silence around the table, as he sipped his tea and ran circles in his mind trying to shore up his plan.

The bellboard started ringing, and Thomas glanced up out of habit—but he wasn’t working, technically speaking, so he let it go. He went back to his tea, bell still jangling insistently. He noticed, through his fog, that the others were looking up at the board, uneasily…

“Master Edward’s room,” Geoffrey said, uncertainly. Fletcher turned, staring. “He usually doesn’t—should I—?”

“I’ll go—” Thomas started, but Fletcher was already on his feet, and there was the groan of scraping chairs all the way around the table. 

“_I’ll_ go,” he said, severely. “The rest of you continue without me.”

Thomas opened his mouth to protest, but the old bastard was already gone. He sank back into his chair, fighting back a wave of frustration.

* * *

“Barrow,” and here was Fletcher again, catching him just as he was trying to pop out for a smoke. “In here. Now.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, conscious of how the nearby maids were suddenly very absorbed in a spot on the floor, and stepped into the pantry. Might as well have it out privately with the man—this was coming sooner, rather than later.

“Master Edward asked after you,” Fletcher said. His voice was level, but Thomas knew when well enough when someone was furious with him—which was more often than not, these days.

“As I told you he would,” Thomas replied, coolly, masking his own fluttering anxiety. _He’s got a spark back, but he needs me. He’s calling for me. _

_ Let me go to him—_

“Why does he even know you are here?” Fletcher bit out. “You are _not_ an employee of this household, and you are not permitted to _wander_—”

“I had to see for myself,” Thomas cut him off, temper flaring. “And it’s a good thing I did—he’s a prisoner!”

“A _prisoner_— Barrow, I hadn’t pegged you for a man prone to hysterics—”

“He is! You keep him locked up and confined to a bed with twenty-four hour guard! He’s a prisoner in his own house, and its _your_ fault—”

“_My_ fault?” This had more of an effect that Thomas was anticipated, the man went chalk white with anger, two red spots appearing on his cheeks. “The illness that has gripped him since his time in your blessed _hospital _is _my_ _fault_—?”

“He was better! He was well and strong when he left! That was behind him and you brought it back!”

“You have a lot of nerve—"

“He told me, you know—" Thomas' mouth was starting to run away from him, but he was too angry to rein it back: "--he told me you ran yapping to your mistress like a good little dog—”

“What would have happened if I said nothing? What would have happened if he tried it again?” Fletcher had clearly lost his composure. “Maybe you can look at yourself every day, knowing that he— _did that_ to himself on your watch, but I—!” He stopped short, pale and trembling. Thomas thought, against his will, that he looked genuinely distressed.

“I don’t owe you any kind of explanation. It is by the charity of the mistress that you’re here at all—and this his how you repay her kindness! With more insolence! I think you’ve done quite enough for this family, Mr. Barrow— quite enough!”

“You know what they did, when he was hurting so terribly? When he was the lowest he’d ever been?" _Don't taunt the bull_, he thought, distantly, but he might as well command the waves: "They told him they’re taking it away from him—” this wasn’t about helping Edward, this was about hurting the people who’d hurt him, and Thomas _knew_ better, he knew the difference, but he wanted to rip the man apart, savage him in the place it hurt most:

“—everything he was supposed to have, everything he was supposed to _be_, they’re going to take it all away, they’ll say its because he’s gone mad but he’s _not_, its because they think he’s outlived his usefulness and if they could they’d take him out back like a lame horse and—”

“Get out!” Fletcher was purple. “How dare you speak to me—in such a—how dare you speak of him like--!”

“You’ve got a lot of gall, playing dutiful servant,” Thomas sneered. “You sold him out—"

Fletcher pointed at the door: “Get out of here or I will thrash you within an inch of your miserable life,” he snarled. “I will speak to Mrs. Courtenay and you’ll be packing your bags! _Out_!”

He didn’t have to tell Thomas twice. The door slammed behind him with a satisfying _crash_.

* * *

He was still fuming when he got to the back, fumbling in his pocket for cigarettes—

_That was stupid_, he chastised himself. _You’re no good to anyone like this. He already hates my guts, and now—_

He looked up from his smoke to find he was getting the evil eye from the chauffeur—still in his gloves and goggles.

Just what he needed, more enemies. 

“Can I help you?”

“You’re Barrow,” the chauffeur said, his face tight and guarded.

“_Mr._ Barrow—”

“And I’m Mr. Cleary,” he said, with a strange, wide-eyed look that Thomas couldn’t parse—in fact, he felt decidedly that he was missing something. Still, the name was familiar, so maybe he wasn't a lost cause. 

“I met your old man in the village—”

“He told me all about you,” Cleary cut him off, harshly, but with another of those bizarre looks. He glanced up, searching the high windows above the courtyard, then back to Thomas: “Told me you were poking your nose around, asking about the young master.”

Well it’s not illegal—” he started, but was cut off again:

“Shut up! You listen to me!” Cleary was on him, fast as lightning, grabbing a big fistful of Thomas’ shirt. His mind reeled, and he was too surprised to do anything but struggle uselessly in his grip. “He told me about you. You need to _get out_.” He used his free hand to point behind him—blindly, so his missed the direction of the gate altogether. “You understand? You need to _get out of here_.” He jabbed his finger again, almost deliberately—

Towards the carriage house—

He must have seen Thomas look over, because he chose that moment to slap him across the face—hard. The blow sent him to the ground, reeling, and Cleary bent over to grab his jacket—

\--and with one stealthy hand, slid something in his chest pocket—

“Sorry!” he breathed, so softly Thomas wasn’t sure he heard it at all, and then the man spat directly in his face.

“Do you understand me now?” Clearly shouted.

“I—I—”

“Understand? Go back where you fucking came from!” then, as quickly as he’d appeared, he turned on his heel and stormed off.

Thomas lay where he’d fallen, dazed. _What in the blue _fuck_ was all that?_ He wiped away the spit probed his jaw with his fingertips, wincing. It wasn’t the first time some bastard had cleaned his clock, and if he was honest it probably wouldn’t be the last, but _usually_ the first punch was precipitated by more than a ‘how do you do’. He hadn’t even had time to be properly rude.

_ Fucking barking, going on about ‘do you understand’._ Understand? Understand _what_, that he’d been assaulted and—

He reached down, slipping his hand inside his pocket, and feeling the smooth metal object—

A key? Too small for any of the doors in a house like this, more like—

More like the new locks over the ignition switch on a fancy new car.

Thomas felt as if he’d been struck a second time.

_Get out of here_, the man had said, pointing to the carriage house with a mad look in his eye. He would have been one of the few who’d actually seen Edward, when he picked him up off the train—one of the few who possibly understand what they’d done to him—

_My father told me all about you. Go back where you came from_.

Thomas didn’t need telling twice, even if the gift-horse had popped _him_ in the mouth. He sat up, fumbling for his cigarette—knocked from his hand and since extinguished—

“So you’re lying about, is that it?” he glanced up to see one of the maids standing over him. Head housemaid, he would guess, from where she’d been sitting at breakfast. “Well, get up. Come make yourself useful.”

“Pardon?” Thomas asked, still reeling.

“You heard me. You might as well earn your keep while you’re here. We’re moving things in storage.”

“You’ve got a footman, haven’t you?”

“Geoffrey’s busy—he’s got proper duties, unlike _you_. Now, come on—” she cocked her head and gave him a meaningful look, just like Clearly—and Thomas could only hope he wasn’t going to get clocked by a maid.

“We need to sort through Master Edward’s old things,” she said. “You were looking at after his kit? You can let me know what still fits.”

“I—yes. Yes,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “Let’s.”

* * *

When they reached the attic, there was already a medium traveling suitcase sitting open on a clotheshorse. Thomas tried to catch her eye, but to no avail.

“All his things from before the war are in here,” she said, opening a chest that stank of mothballs. “And in that wardrobe over there. Sort out what he can still wear and what’s salvage.”

“What am I packing?”

She gave him a long, piercing look. “I didn’t take you for a fool.”

“Margery, look what I got out of the laundry—” they turned, and here was a mousy little tweeny with a basket of shirts and other sundries. She stopped short, looking at Thomas uncertainly.

“And you were smart about it? You weren’t seen?”

“Not by anyone who would tell,” she boasted. “Here you are, Mr. Barrow. You’ll have to get his bracers and shoes and things out of the dressing room…”

“Will I?” Thomas asked, cautiously. The little maid looked at Margery, and back to him.

“You don’t want him to be naked while you’re on the lam,” she said, frankly.

“Oh, for heaven’s _sake_, Jenny—!”

“It’d be hard for me to get in the dressing room,” Thomas said, quickly, before the window of honesty closed. “What with the nurse on duty at all times.”

“Oh, she’ll be on duty alright,” Margery said, mysteriously. “But she likes her nightcap, Nurse Harlowe does. Makes the long shift go down a little easy. I think it might go down quite easy, one of these nights—a little extra kick, if you catch my meaning.”

“Tonight?” he pressed.

She eyed him. “Maybe. Could be ready then…”

“No time to be ready. They want to be rid of me.”

She only nodded. “They very much do. Tonight, then-- I've dawdled here long enough. I’ll leave you to it, Mr. Barrow—”

“Wait,” he shouldn’t be wasting time like this—he should just accept his good fortune and get to work. But then, nothing in life was free, so why—

“Why are you helping me?”

She gave him a long, considering glance. “My Charlie came back a little funny, after the war. Touched,” she tapped her temple to emphasize her point. “Mr. Edward, he needs sunshine and fresh air—not what they’re doing to him. He’s wasting away—they’ll _kill_ him at this rate, even if they don’t mean to.”

“Jack might.”

“It’s not my place to speculate,” she said, with an air that said she had come to a similar conclusion. “But he was doing so well, out on walks with his stick and all—Mr. Fletcher begged him to get a valet, and he refused. Said he owed everything to one man. Said he’d be waiting for him.” She gave him a long, considering look:

“Spoke awfully highly of you. Think you can live up to it?”

“Not your place to question the master’s judgement,” he sniped.

She snorted. “Get cracking, then, smarmy prick—good luck, godspeed.”

* * *

Strange how a house could work like a well-oiled machine.

“That’s not for you to handle, Mr. Barrow,” Geoffrey said, tugging the suitcase out of his hands. “You shouldn’t be poking around—”

“Don’t—”

“It goes out to the car,” he said, with a wink, and before Thomas could protest he was gone.

* * *

Thomas managed to dodge Fletcher the rest of the day, once with the help of a scullery maid who shoved him in a cupboard and pulled the door shut behind her. They didn’t meet again until dinner, which dragged and dragged—just as silent and tense and the night before, but now with the excruciating knowledge that things were about to move very, very quickly.

“Mr. Courtenay will be arriving home tomorrow morning,” Fletcher announced. He fixed Thomas with a baleful stare. “I expect everyone to behave in a manner befitting his return.”

“Yes, Mr. Fletcher,” they murmured in dull chorus.

_I’ll do you one better_, Thomas thought, giddily. _I’ll be gone before you know it_. 

He did his best to school his expression, but he was nearly vibrating in anticipation. 

_Please_, he thought, watching the clock. _Faster, faster..._

* * *

“Teddy,” he breathed. “Teddy, don’t be scared, its only me.”

He had his hand over Edward’s mouth, trying to keep from being overwhelmed by the electric heat of finally being able to touch him again.

His eyes fluttered open, “Thomas…?”

“Shh. We’re leaving.”

“But—”

“I’ll explain later, but we have to move quickly. I’ve packed our things, let’s get you dressed—”

“We’re…going…?”

“I promise,” Thomas begged, “I’ll tell you everything, but we’ve only got one shot. It has to be now—”

Edward seemed confused—unfocused, like he didn’t remember their last meeting. For a long, cold moment, Thomas thought he might be much worse than he thought. Then, in an instant, he seemed to snap to attention—Thomas thought he saw the shade of Lieutenant Courtenay, rolling out of his bunk as the shells rained down, ready for anything.

“Under the bed—between the slats, there’s an envelope—it should still be there—”

It was dark in the room, with only a risky candle and a shaft of moonlight from between the curtains for illumination. Thomas fumbled until he found his prize.

“Some of my papers—a little money—the rest of its in the bank, we’ll need that to get it—I thought they might take it away from me.”

Christ.

“Good thinking,” he said, quickly, before he could fully realize the weight of those words. He shoved the envelope in his jacket. Edward had thrown off the bedclothes and was fumbling for the side table. Thomas considered briefly the irony of their situation, that Edward might have an easier time navigating the dark house than him.

“We’re in a hurry, love, so put your arms up—” he slid the nightshirt up over his head, and threw it to the ground, trying to ignore the sharpness of Edward’s collarbones, the hollow of his throat, made ghoulish in the shadows of the flickering candlelight. _I will love you, I promise, you'll be well and strong again_...

Thomas had been undressing men at work and at play for well over a decade, and considered himself highly skilled in either context. Never had his hands fumbled or been so unsure—missing buttons, fumbling the tie—

“It’s alright,” Edward’s voice was hoarse, but his words were steady, a voice one follow up over the top: “take a breath—take a breath, then go on—I trust you—”

It wasn’t his best work—perhaps the worst since his first days of training, practicing bowties on the first footman and getting his knuckles rapped with a ruler every time he made a mess of it. But it would have to do—

“Where’s your stick?”

“I don’t know—”

“Here—” Thomas wrapped Edward’s hand over the top. “Last call. Anything else?”

“Too late for that. Let’s _go_.”

Edward was unsteady on his feet, and after a few shambling steps Thomas put his shoulder under the other man’s arm, taking his weight. They were so _loud_ shuffling down the plush carpet, every creaking stair ringing like a gunshot, Thomas’ ragged breaths were like screams in his ears—

“Back door,” he said, for Edward’s benefit or his he couldn’t say. One last click as it closed behind them—the scullery maid would surely notice it was unlocked, but if she kept her mouth shut it could buy them another hour—

“Where are we going now?”

“Shhh,” Thomas hissed. “We’re taking the car.”

“A car—?”

“Shh!”

Thomas didn’t dare fumble for the light switch in the garage, instead sliding Edward into the passenger seat in near-darkness. “Wait here—” 

“Are you—stealing the car—?”

“_Borrowing_,” he hissed, “only borrowing—” he fumbled for the crank—

“Now, that’s _quite_ enough.”

Thomas nearly jumped out of his skin—he saw Edward go pale. “God,” he said, softly, “oh, my God—”

“It’s quite alright, sir,” Fletcher sounded so maddeningly smug, standing there in his pajamas and flickering candle. “I’m here, and I’ll notify the police shortly—”

“No—!”

“Haven’t you done enough?” Thomas snarled. “That place wasn’t enough for him, so now you’ll pack him off to gaol—?”

Fletcher had the nerve to shake his head. “You’ve lost your mind, Barrow. The only person the police are interested in is you—for your attempted kidnapping!”

“Kidnapping—!”

“Do you deny it? Here I’ve caught you, red handed—”

“Fletcher,” Thomas had never heard Edward speak that way—his voice was still hoarse, dusty from disuse, but there was steel in it. Two spots of color stood out on his pale cheeks, and he raised his chin: “Do you suppose I would be willing to let myself be carted off like a willful child to somewhere I didn’t want to go?”

“I—sir?”

“I am not being abducted. I am _escaping_. Surely you can see that?”

“Sir,” the old man sounded more like a schoolmaster than anything else: “you aren’t well. You simply aren’t in your right mind. Now, please—”

“I’m the sanest I’ve been for weeks,” Edward snapped. “_You_ don’t dictate to _me_ where I can and cannot go!”

Fletcher seemed genuinely taken aback. “Please sir, I don’t mean to be impertinent. But this is wrong—look at yourself! Stealing away in the middle of the night! You’re not thinking straight—!”

“It’s the only way I’ll ever get out of here! You know what they’re like! What they did to me at that place—it’s a wonder I have any sanity at all—no thanks to _you_, if we’re speaking plainly—”

“Sir,” to his credit, Fletcher looked genuinely miserable at the rebuke. “You hurt yourself. I—it upset me a great deal, sir—”

“Oh, it _upset_ you—”

“Yes. Very much, sir. And I thought—I was frightened—if it happened again—”

Edward’s expression softened. He leaned down, rolling up his sleeve. “Come here,” he ordered, gently.

“Is that wise—?” Thomas started, but Edward brushed him off.

“Let him come. I insist. Look—really look at it, if it frightens you so much.” He stuck out his wrist for inspection, and Fletcher leaned forward with extreme reluctance. “Two years, Fletcher. It’s been two years since all that. See where it was sewn up? I can feel that, all the little stitches. That was _Thomas_. He saved my _life_.”

Fletcher spared Thomas a dark, suspicious glare.

_Will nothing please you?_

“Be that as it may—”

“Hush. Listen to me. They want to be rid of me—or maybe Mother actually believes she’s helping, I don’t know. But they’re suffocating me, and I’m not—I can’t fight them all alone." This may have been the most Edward had spoken in weeks-- he was nearly croaking, but pressed on, urgently: "Not when they gang up on me as one. I can’t stay in this house, where they think of me as a wind-up toy with a broken key. I’m not _living_ here. I must go.”

Fletcher was silent—the moments ticked past, precious time lost—

“Please,” Edward had lost his hard, commanding tone: “You know me better than Mother and Father. You were the only one who could tell me from Jack—not even Nanny got it right all the time.”

“You—were always my favorite,” Fletcher said. “It’s not my place to say so, but I’m afraid it’s true.”

“Then let me go. Help me—do this one last thing for me.”

Fletcher seemed to waver, and Thomas held his breath. Then:

“Please,” the old man’s voice was gentle now, almost pleading: “Sir, I wish you’d reconsider. If you leave—it may be difficult—in the event you want to return home—”

“I can’t stay here,” Edward tilted his face up, catching the light. “I know you didn’t mean any harm, but I can’t—I can’t _live_ like this. I can’t fight them every day of my life. I have to get out while I still can.”

“But—” Fletcher struggled to find the words. “Do you really trust this man to—?”

“Yes,” Edward cut him off. “I trust him with my life. He cares more for it than I do.” He held out his hand, and Thomas took it automatically—he realized, a half second too late, how it looked—that it could be enough to tip the balance the other way—

The old butler’s mouth dropped open, as if he wanted to say something, to protest—but instead he seemed to deflate. Shoulders slumping, he looked down at the ground for a long moment.

“It’s a funny thing,” Fletcher remarked, not quite looking at either of them, “but you know— Sir Hubert never married.” 

“What’s funny about it?” Thomas snapped.

Fletcher was silent for a long moment. “Nothing really, I suppose. He was a good man. A kind and decent man. He just…never married.”

“The family wasn’t happy, I imagine,” Edward said, quietly.

“No, they weren’t,” Fletcher agreed. “But if I may speak candidly, sir…his butler never minded.”

Edward’s face broke into a smile. He threw his arms open, and the old man bent over—gingerly, uncertain— and embraced him.

“Good old Fletcher,” Edward murmured. “I knew you’d see it my way.”

“Please be careful, sir,” he said, like his heart would break. “You know I fret.”

“I know,” Edward said, indulgently. “At ease, old boy—I swear I’m in good hands.”

Fletcher glanced sideways at Thomas, as if he would very much like to argue; but knew he’d already lost. Not that it was his place to question the heir to the household, come in to his own— but Thomas supposed butlers were like hatters, in that the circumstances of their occupation drove them utterly insane in due time.

Why else would old Carson dote on a hellcat like Lady Mary as if she were his own daughter?

Why else turn away and remark ‘Sir Hubert never married’ as if it were the most natural thing in the world?

“Well, Barrow,” Fletcher said at last. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I’ve a reference from the Earl of Grantham,” Thomas replied, snidely. “I could send it on, if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Fletcher scowled. “You’d best be going then. Is there anything I can…?”

“No,” Edward said, smiling. “Thank you—you’ll keep quiet, then? About where we’ve gone?”

Fletcher seemed to hesitate. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he said, “I was rather—well, if Sir wasn’t too busy—one likes to know you are well—”

“I’ll send you a great long novel of a letter once everything’s settled,” Edward promised. “You have my word.”

“It would bring me great peace of mind.” The old man looked as if he suddenly felt every one of his years. “I’ll do what I can to buy you some time. Can I—?”

Edward seemed to understand, and allowed Fletcher to help situate him in his seat, and then gently—without much noise—shut the door.

"Safe and pleasant travels, sir,” he said, mournfully. 

“You be careful too, Fletcher. Don’t let Mother bully you.”

“No sir.”

“I mean it. Stand your ground. You’ve been here longer than she has.”

“Yes sir.”

“We’d better be off,” Thomas broke in. He was anxious to get on the road before anyone else could come out for a tearful farewell.

“No point in dragging your feet,” Fletcher agreed, but his words lacked real bite. Thomas climbed into the driver’s seat, painfully aware that he hadn’t driven at all in his last few months at Farley Hall. Still, everything seemed standard—he could figure it out.

He looked in the rearview and saw Fletcher standing there, face etched with shadows in the dim light of his candle. Thomas flicked him a quick salute.

He nodded, then turned to go.

“Ready, Teddy?”

“God, yes,” Edward said, his voice nearly breaking. “For Christ’s sake, let’s get _out_ of this horrible place.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Thomas said, coaching the engine to life. The car started its slow progress, gravel crunching under the tires, and Thomas watched the house from the corner of his eye—waiting, with baited breath, for lights to turn on—

But the house stayed dark. They crept towards the gate, hearts pounding—Edward’s hand was reaching, pale in the shafts of moonlight, his fingers searching until they found Thomas’ arm and gave it a squeeze—

They were past the gates—

“Hold on tight,” Thomas warned, and pushed the pedal to the floor.

* * *

What little landscape he could see in the dim glow of the headlamps whipped past the car as they flew down the road—he prayed fervently all the little creatures of the forest stayed in their beds and didn’t some blundering into their way. He gripped the steering wheel tight, hoping against hope that they’d make it—

Edward found the crank and was rolling the windows down, and the wind caught his hair, whipping it back and forth—he leveraged himself up, leaning on the window—leaning _out_ of the window—

“Teddy! What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing—?”

Edward laughed, reaching with his hands and letting the wind card through his fingers—he leaned back his head and howled at the moon, with wild, careless abandon—

“Get back in here! Someone will hear you—!”

Thomas kept his eyes glued to the road, but he could just see the fierce joy in Teddy’s face, the kind of wild relief of freedom—

Here they were, careening into the unknown in a stolen car, enemies behind them and God-knows-what lurking in front. He was driving like a madman with an escaped lunatic in the passenger seat.

“Thomas pull over,” Edward laughed, “pull over—”

“I can’t _pull over_, the police could be—”

“Stop the car!” he was demanding, giddy, hysterical: “Stop the car! I want to kiss you—!”

“What? _Now_?!”

“Yes! Now! God, I can’t believe it—I can’t believe we made it—”

“We haven’t made it yet, so just—keep it under your cap—”

The fingers were questing again, and Thomas peeled one hand off the steering wheel to meet him halfway—and Edward put the hand to his lips, reverently—

“You came back,” he said, softly. “You came back for me.”

“Course I did. I said I would. Gotten out of tighter spots than this—”

But not many. Here they were, a cripple and a coward and both perverts to boot, on the run with no friends or refuge in sight. Limited funds, limited options—

“You’re brilliant, you know that? You’re a fucking miracle-worker—oh, _Thomas_—!” 

No plan, no direction, no idea what to do next.

_Suits me just fine_, Thomas thought, and they roared off into the night. 


End file.
